


The Three Musketeers: The English Invasion

by MlledeLaRoseBlanche



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, Three Musketeers (2011), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, FanFiction.Net, Gen, Inspired by a Movie, Steampunk, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 161,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlledeLaRoseBlanche/pseuds/MlledeLaRoseBlanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The winds of change are blowing over Paris as the English fleet washes over the great city like a wave and France is suddenly at the mercy of the Duke of Buckingham. Will the Inseparables rise to the challenge once again and free France from the invader? (Sequel to The Three Musketeers 2011 movie)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peace & New Acquaintances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We do not own the The Three Musketeers 3D (2011) or any element therein, which is a copyrighted product of Constantin Film and Impact Pictures, directed by Paul W.S. Anderson. No profit has been made in the writing of this work. 
> 
> The sole ownership we will maintain is the creation of unique characters that have no part in the aforementioned work. Please ask before use of any unique character made for and developed in the creation of this work. 
> 
> Thank you.

The streets were busy in Paris on this hot summer day as Athos walked along the cobblestone road towards the apartment he shared with his three friends Porthos, Aramis, and most recently, D’Artagnan. After their efforts in England to recover Queen Anne’s diamonds (and which had settled an old score with Buckingham), Her Majesty had championed their return to the musketeer corps, exerting her influence over Louis in order that it they should return to their former duties.

It had not taken too long for Monsieur de Tréville, the de facto Captain of the musketeers (1), to reissue Athos, Porthos, and Aramis their lost commissions and for D’Artagnan to be offered his entry into the guards of Monsieur des Essarts to begin his probationary two year period. Now, instead of drinking their lives away in taverns while working in them, the Inseparables were very much part of the active duties as soldiers and life could be said to have a slight rosy tint to it.

But let us return to Athos, a man of slightly stout but sturdy figure and a surly expression, made more so by the beard and mustache grown around his mouth and chin, whose occupation of walking had become interrupted by the thickening of the crowd as they parted around a stopped carriage about three buildings away from his own. The musketeer growled in discontent as he was shoved around and shoved heartily in return in order to pass and once beyond the blockage, he was stopped again as violent German swears resounded behind him.

He turned with a closed expression to watch as a young man early in his twenty years, younger than Aramis but older than D’Artagnan, was being scolded by the older gentleman before him. The young man had a fair complexion, dark brown hair and a bitter look on his face as he struggled to regain his grip on the chest that was the cause of what looked to be his father’s displeasure. With the chest lifted from his foot, the older man with greying brown hair and a darker face glared down at his son and spewed German freely, his hand striking at the air violently. Athos found he was not alone in watching this spectacle as he glanced briefly around him to see others slowing their paces to regard the foreigners with a mixture of wary and haughty looks. Suddenly, a woman appeared at the door of the building with hands on her plump hips and all the dignity of a slightly squashed pear. Her sun-kissed face was beginning to show signs of a certain age and her dark hair was sprinkled with grey strands. Her face was pinched in a look of distinct annoyance.

“Why can you not simply do anything as we ask you to?” she demanded of the boy in loud French. “We took you and your little sister into our home out of the goodness in our hearts and this is how you repay us, Roderic?” Roderic looked up at her with a defiant glare and endeavoured to take hold of the chest, once more propping it up on his knee. He almost dropped it again when Athos came forward and caught a handle.

“Perhaps I could help,” he offered. Although many would describe him in the coldest and harshest of terms, he was still a gentleman. Roderic offered an appreciative smile and willingly took up one handle rather than struggle with both. The woman stood aside to allow the two men to pass through the door while she remained in the street berating her husband in a mixture of fragmented German and pure French. They climbed up a short flight of stairs and entered into the apartment on the second floor. As was typical of a Parisian lodging, the space wasn’t much to think of. There was the main chamber, which had a couple of somewhat hard looking beds and a wardrobe against a wall. There was another trunk already sitting in the middle of the room. Athos and Roderic set down the chest they carried and Roderic was hearty in his thanks, his thick German accent colouring his words. Athos returned downstairs and out into the street, ignored by the arguing parents as they entered the building.

Thinking the situation finished, Athos turned to leave when a new face appeared at the door. It was that of a fresh young girl peeking around the frame and looking in either direction of the street before scurrying towards the carriage to retrieve something. The shutters of a window on the second floor opened and the bitter woman from before shouted down to the girl and she turned, craning her neck up to look to her mother. She was a little tall when compared to a French woman but not so tall as to be unsightly. Her hair, a dark, mousey brown, was tied in a severe knot on the back of her head but a few strands escaped the tie.

“Orianne, you get back inside this instant! You were not told to fetch anything. Get back in here and finish your cleaning.” Orianne, clutching a small valise, ran back inside, but not before tripping on the step and losing her shoe.

“Orianne, I will not be kept waiting for you!” The girl snatched up her shoe, dropped the valise, and placed the shoe back on her foot before vanishing out of sight of the doorway.  
Athos lifted a brow, frowning a little at the lodging then turning towards his own lodging. Normally he could never be bothered with their neighbours but these ones had been in his way and so loud about it that it had drawn even his aloof attention; however, it meant nothing to him who they were and so he quickly forgot about them.

***

The lodging was empty save for Aramis, who was quietly occupied with book in his hands, spectacles perched on his nose, his lithe frame lounging in his particular corner of choosing, and dark brown hair tucked back behind his ears. Athos took a cup from the table, filled it with wine from the bottle near Aramis, and took a hearty swig. Aramis glanced up briefly to offer him a greeting before lowering his eyes again to the words on his page.

“Where are Porthos and D’Artagnan?” Athos asked as he took a seat in his usual place in a chair standing against one of the wall supports. Aramis gave a sigh and looked over his spectacles.

“Porthos mentioned something about needing to get a new jacket and D’Artagnan is visiting Mademoiselle Constance at the Louvre. Why?” Athos shrugged and took another drink from his cup. Planchet, a plump man with long, matted blond hair, clattered some plates and cups about, muttering bitterly about being still left on the balcony to sleep. Aramis rolled his eyes to the ceiling and shifted a little in his seat and the two friends remained in the silence for some time before Porthos came blustering in, laughing loudly and carrying a wrapped package that most likely held his newest article of clothing. The man’s frame, which was too big for the small lodging when he wasn’t in such a good mood, now seemed enlarged with his pleasure. While Parisian men kept their hair long, down to their shoulders at least, and well groomed, Porthos had forgone all of this, having a partiality for his Norman roots, and kept his hair trimmed so close that it was fuzz on his head. He also wore a sole earring in his left ear that bore a single pearl, a trace of his love for the finer things in life when he wasn’t able to wear his new doublets on missions, of which there were more now than before.

“Aramis, Athos, what are you doing holed up in this bloody house at this time? It is such a beautiful day out there! And Aramis, don’t you ever leave those damn books alone? You’ll wear them out by reading them so much!”

"You might consider reading sometime Porthos," Aramis said with a smirk. "You may learn something."

Porthos stared at the would be priest for all of ten seconds, farted loudly and left the kitchen for his room, doubtlessly to continue admiring his new acquisition in the large full-length mirror that he had next to his bed. Aramis blinked a moment before slamming his book down on the table.

"Dammit Porthos!" he yelled, putting a handkerchief to his face that he had pulled from God knew where. Athos shook his head and found the scent of the wine in his cup to be the best place to bury his nose and Planchet coughed and pushed open the window of the poop-covered balcony in order for the air to be cleaned.

Porthos gave a laugh from his room. The front door opened and D’Artagnan walked into the main room, blinking as he was suddenly in contact with the foul odor. The youth of barely eighteen was shortest of the four and almost feminine boned, strange for a boy from the southern provinces of Gascony, the people being known for their hardy and stubborn natures. His wavy, dark brown hair hung loose around his face and he was dressed in his best suit, the one he had received from the King shortly after meeting the three musketeers, the jacket and doublet of which he was now removing.

“Mordious, what died in here?” he asked. He sat on a chair and pulled himself to the table, reaching over on Aramis’ side to grab hold of a quill, some ink and a few pieces of parchment. He started writing, the tip of his tongue showing slightly between his lips.

"Nothing died but someone just might!" Aramis said in a muffled declaration, glaring towards the stairs.

It took a few moments more for the three of them to be able to properly breathe again and Aramis watched as D'Artagnan struggled over a word before blotting his parchment in his haste and having to start whatever it was anew. Athos stood to refill his cup and Porthos came downstairs dressed in a deep red, almost brown, jacket. The giant ignored another glare that Aramis shot at him and sat down beside him in order to drink as well.

“Writing a poem, lad?” Porthos teased, reaching over to snatch up the blotted copy from near D’Artagnan.

“Porthos! Give it back!” D’Artagnan said, snatching the paper back from his snickering friend. From anyone else, Porthos would have been greatly annoyed by this, but instead he stood and ruffled the youth’s head with his knuckles and went to the kitchen corner to break a large chunk of bread off a baguette. D’Artagnan huffed in annoyance, flattening his hair on his head, and then stared at his blotched piece of paper, which seemed to be nagging him on the table. He picked it up, crumpled it in a ball, and threw it behind him with a growl. The paper bounced on Athos’ head and landed by his foot.

“Careful where you aim these, boy”, growled Athos, still sipping at his cup. He bent down to pick up the wadded paper and gave it a light toss back on to the table.  
D’Artagnan took the paper and threw it in the other direction and this time it struck Aramis in the chest and landed in his lap. Rather than give it back to his young friend, Aramis carefully unfolded the paper ball and read the words through the creases, frowning.

“You know D’Artagnan,” Aramis began with a small smile. “There is no shame in asking for help when one really needs it.”

The Gascon glanced at him, gave a short hum in reply but otherwise said nothing. He took up his quill and ink and began again. Athos went for his third cup of wine.

“An odd family has moved in a couple buildings from us,” said Athos gruffly; Aramis’ words reminding him of his act of charity. “They sounded German.”

“Bah… They come in increasing numbers, don’t they? I heard that war is raging over there… No one can blame them for wanting the security and the relative peace of Paris! After all, isn’t it the grandest city of the world?”

Having said this, Porthos sat down to munch contentedly on his bread. Aramis approached the table and took another quill, dipped it in the ink, and started scratching out words on the paper, thinking for a few seconds, and wrote replacement words while D’Artagnan watched him somewhat grumpily. After a few seconds, Aramis gave him the results of his efforts.

“Here, this should give you some inspiration”, he said, his eyes twinkling with mirth.  
D’Artagnan looked at the paper, pinking slightly and muttered a grudging thanks to Aramis before beginning to recopy what the older musketeer had written.

“Planchet!” Porthos called, waving the emptied wine bottle. “More wine!”

“Yes, Monsieur Porthos”, he said, before muttering to himself, “as if you needed any more…”

“What was that, Planchet?”

“Nothing, nothing, Monsieur Athos, I’m on my way,” the servant replied hastily, before walking out the front door and away from the brooding man’s glare as fast as his legs could carry him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
(1) Although consistently called the Captain of the Musketeers, Tréville was actually historically the Captain-Lieutenant and King Louis XIII was the Captain


	2. Plotting & Pestering

The ship rolled along the waves of the English Channel as the wind propelled the English fleet forward towards the oncoming shores of Calais. The Duke of Buckingham gave a bitter smile, which rapidly changed to a slight teeth grinding as he thought about the events that had brought him to this point. The musketeers would pay for his embarrassment, most especially Athos. 

King James has been furious with him for allowing the musketeers not only so deep into London but also for the theft of the first prototype of the war machine. Buckingham could almost hear yet again the snickers of the Parliament and the Court he had once dominated ringing in his ears. It had taken much convincing for him to get the King to allow him to lead the invasion of France but as he had the greatest knowledge of the workings of the airship, he was the best candidate. 

“Milord,” Buckingham turned away from the ship’s bow to look at one of his many lieutenants, waiting. The man swallowed back a lump in his throat and straightened. “Milady has awakened from her rest and desires your presence.”

“Very well,” said Buckingham, taking a last glance at the shoreline before them. He handed his telescope to the lieutenant. “Watch the shore for any activity. I want the French to be well surprised about our visit and no resistance.” The lieutenant took to his duty immediately and Buckingham entered the ship’s cabin where Milady had been bedded down to rest after her time in the Channel. The cabin itself was sparse, contained only a bed, a desk, and a chair angled towards the desk. All of this was nailed into the floor to keep from sliding. 

Milady’s red curls were quite ruined and her hair was a sleek mass, half of which was held up by the few pins that had remained. A few strands fell around her pale face and she was reclining in the bed of his cabin, still a little weak. Buckingham gave her a lascivious smile and she offered him a bit of a pout. 

“Is it really necessary to have so many ships to invade France?” she asked, tilting her head in a disarming way. She looked him over, his brown hair swept off his face and held back in a puffy ball by pins on the top of his head, curls tucked back behind his ears. He was dressed in his purple suit again with the wide, high lace collar tight about his neck and looking so stiff it could cut someone. His doublet sleeves were patterned with gold damask, as were the slashed over-breeches that revealed white fabric underneath. Buckingham laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed by her, stroking the shape of her leg through the cover. 

“Of course it is. France will be punished for Athos’ mistake in embarrassing me as he did. As for her King, well, Louis is a weak, jealous child. He will be powerless before my war machines.” 

“They think me dead, you know.” Milady said slowly, “Such a thing could be of use to you.”

“How so?” 

“Athos, Porthos and Aramis will not be expecting me to be involved in their affairs nor in the Court. I could ask a few questions discreetly and perhaps find something to be used against them,” she said, trailing a finger along Buckingham’s jaw. 

“Keep your focus on Athos. That surly bear needs to be put in his place.”  
Milady smiled weakly at his retort, and fell back against the pillows, closing her eyes. She barely remembered how she had survived the steep drop from the prototype airship. The water had hit her like a brick wall. She felt sore all over. 

Buckingham kissed her forehead lightly and retreated, recognizing the dismissal and allowing her to rest. The moment the door closed behind him, though, Milady slowly got up to her feet and hesitantly made her way to the window, looking down at the approaching land below. A strange smile graced her features.

When the sea-faring ships docked in Calais, men quickly ran forward bearing pikes and shovels to batter against the English as these men and women whom had lived in the port all their lives realised that there were too many ships to be a simple ambassador’s visit. The gilded boats with their billowing sails glided into the harbor and were still for a few moments before the gangplanks were lowered onto the docks. The peasants were little match for the soldiers that came out, and several Frenchmen were cut down before the crowd backed away and were surrounded, trembling in fear. Buckingham strutted down the gangplank, dressed in a suit of deep red patterned with gold, and smirked at how simple this part of the operation had been. 

He had not noticed that there was a post carrier at the edge of the port square and when he did, there was little he could to stop his riding off in great haste. But he did send several soldiers to procure horses and hunt down the carrier as quickly as possible. Now, he turned to the people and smiled as charming a smile as he could muster. 

“Dear French citizens,” he began, standing on a crate and looking over the people who regarded him with fear and distaste, “you need not fear me so long as your silence is kept. I assure you that I have no intention of harming your city.”

There were shouts of vehement protests and Buckingham sighed, rolling his eyes to the sky. The port city was a rather dirty place; the buildings had yellowed from the sun and salt. The people could mostly be described as brown and scruffy; not at all what he was used to in the English court where the women were pale and soft, as they should be.

“However,” he said loudly, “If this silence is not kept then Calais shall be burnt to the ground!” The prime minister of England waved his hand up to the clouds to direct attention to the army of airships floating over them and one began its landing in the square. 

The people of Calais shied away from Buckingham as though he was the plague, but not a single more word was uttered amongst the mass. Who would dare speak, when fire could engulf them straight from the skies themselves? Mothers clung to their children and fathers hid their families behind themselves, eyeing the multitude of ships which seemed to have no end.

The gentle swish of a dress came from behind Buckingham, and he turned around to see Milady coming off the ship, beautiful in her dress of deep red, a colour which shocked most of the people gathered there (1). Without so much as a glance to them, she approached the duke, and he leaned on her hand to kiss it lightly as she held it out.

“Everything is going according to plan,” he muttered to her, eyes gleaming with mirth and want. “We will embark upon this airship to reach Paris, my dear, while the rest of the armada circles towards the South and takes as many cities as is possible.”

The leading airship landed and the walkway was lowered so that Buckingham and Milady could climb aboard. As soon as they had, the walkway retracted, the anchor was hoisted back up and the ship lifted off. Once above the highest of the buildings, it was steered in the direction of Paris, the wind behind them and thus in their favour.

“Soon we shall have France on her knees,” Buckingham remarked to himself with a bit of a sneer in his voice, “and I will have revenge.”

****

“Roderic, give me those boots! You cannot go out in those dirty things.” Roderic rolled his eyes and pulled his boots on anyway. 

“Mère, Orianne polished my boots like you ordered her too and she did wonderfully. There is no fault to be found with her work so let it be!” The mother glared down at her seated son and opened her mouth to argue further when her husband yelled.

“Loanne, Orianne broke yet another dish.” Loanne scoffed and turned towards the cupboard where the dishes were kept, seeing her husband holding their daughter by the ear and pinching it until it was as red as a cherry. 

Orianne whimpered and stood up on the tips of wooden shoes to try and relieve some of the pain but her father only lifted his arm higher and pulled her ear with it. 

“You are absolutely hopeless child,” Loanne declared, hands on her hips and leaning forward slightly into her words. Orianne sniffed and tried to nod. Roderic stood and bolted forward, prying Orianne’s ear from their father’s grasp. 

“Leave her alone. She does more than either of you and still you treat her like a servant, not like a daughter.”

Loanne glared at her husband, saying, “I expected you to have taught our son to be a lot better behaved than that but I suppose I must do everything, right Rudolf?”

Rudolf bore down on the smaller woman, teeth snarling. His German accent lay thick over his words. 

“Perhaps you should properly teach the little brat you wanted on how to be a proper woman!” Thus, the two parents walked out of the door still arguing about who was responsible for Orianne’s latest disaster (besides Orianne herself.) 

Roderic regarded his sister with a sad smile and opened his arms to her, burying his face in her hair when she clung to him. She sniffed against his doublet and dug her nails into his back. 

“I didn’t mean to break the plate, brother. I swear—” She was cut off by Roderic’s finger over her lips. 

“I know you didn’t. You’re just easily scared by them as you have known nothing else she you were but a babe,” he kissed her forehead and held her close. “I promise you that I will get into the Guards and I will come back for you. But you must be brave while I am gone.”

He tilted her chin up and offered a gentle smile, receiving a slightly watery one in return. 

“Can you do that for me, dear little sister?” She nodded, stepping away and wiping her eyes on her woollen sleeve. 

“I’ll try,” Orianne stammered. “But I will miss you so much, Roderic.”

“It won’t be today and most likely not tomorrow but I will leave soon. I will either go on my own or they will grow tired of me and throw me out.”  
They heard noise on the stairs, sharing a sigh and a dark look as their parents returned from a nearby market, their mother carrying a basket of bread and fruit and calling for Orianne to come take it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
(1) The reason why the women were so scandalized by Milady’s dress because historically women would generally dress in colours such as blue, purple, black, violet, or grey.   
Dark vivid colours such as red or green were reserved for the nobility and men in general. For a woman to wear these was blatant provocation in this time period.


	3. Nightmares & an Englishman's Return

_It was a dark night. Athos sat up on his bed, unable to sleep, feeling his throat parched with thirst. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he made his way towards the main room, where he knew Planchet always left him a bottle of wine. Athos often slipped out of bed at night to have a drink, and the servant had grown tired of being shaken awake every time by a cross musketeer. The initiative, he thought, was much better for his nerves. Athos blinked at the ghostly light that shone in the dining area. He had no remembrance of seeing the moon from his bedroom window._

_Shrugging, he went to the cooking area and found, not without satisfaction, some wine sitting there with a cup already set by it. Giving a slight grunt of approval, he opened the bottle and helped himself to some in the cup, before sitting at the table to drink at ease. A pair of eyes gleamed in the darkest corner, startling him as he was about to take a first draught. He set the glass down on the table and wrenched the small curtain covering the window aside. His eyes grew wide as he stared into eyes of green over pink lips that sweetly smiled at him._

_“Anne”, he breathed, putting both hands on the table for support, unable to believe his own eyes. She laughed sweetly and stood from the chair, appearing to glide more than walk as she made her way to him, and settled her hands on his chest._

_“Did you miss me?” She purred, taking advantage of his shock to stand to her tip toes and kiss him on the lips, her flowery scent invading him. Without much thought, he circled her waist with his hands and answered the kiss, deepening it as she moaned heatedly against his mouth. He pulled away slightly from her and then felt an odd breeze surround them._

_The kitchen was gone! They were back aboard the airship, and Milady was pulling away from him, stepping back towards the edge, her expression soft and longing at the same time. “No, don’t do it,” he cried, reaching to grasp her hand, feeling his feet cemented to the planks, unable to move as she finally reached the edge and fell slowly, almost unrealistically, back into the darkness below. “Anne! No!”_

He awoke with a start. Darkness flooded his bedroom. Athos scrambled out of his blankets, his face covered in sweat, and he reached for his pocket watch, staring at it for nearly thirty seconds before his mind could register the time. It was just a little past two in the morning. Hissing at the contrast between the cold floor and his feet, he rose and stumbled sleepily across his bedroom to his door, fully intent on achieving what he had not been able to do during his dream; get a good long drink.

The warmth of the main room greeted him as he swung the panel open, and he thought fugitively that he should stop shutting his door when he went to bed at night. The heat of the fireplace, he thought with a shiver, might well be worth the loss of privacy.

Athos glanced sideways at the stairs, vaguely registering Porthos’ bellowing snores from the top floor as he walked to the kitchen table, his eyes still not used to the darker room, but finding his way around nonetheless by sheer habit. He poured himself a drink from the bottle left there earlier by Planchet and drank heartily, relief submerging both his parched throat and his frazzled nerves. The embers in the hearth glowed amongst the ashes and Athos saw the shape of the servant sleeping on the balcony again. His lips twitched at the corners as he thought of what would happen the next morning to the sarcastic, but loyal, servant when the birds awoke.

Settling himself on his stool by his door, he took another long draught, allowing his head to rest against the wooden boards as he thought about his most recent nightmare. These dreams had been plaguing him ever since they had arrived back in Paris in that blasted airship. They were always the same; Milady finding him here or there, smiling at him, kissing him… And then she was falling, falling…

Was it guilt, this gnawing sensation in his chest? The newly reinstituted musketeer pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, heaving a sigh that caused Planchet to twitch slightly on his makeshift bed.

They had met a little over three years ago, at a ball organized by the Queen Mother Marie de Médicis. The event had been said to be in the honour of the young King Louis’ birthday, although Louis had barely made an appearance, kept away as he was from his duty by his power-hungry mother.

They had bonded quickly that evening, as two souls of the same cloth, driven by adventure and intrigue. Even though they had seen each other on and off at best of times, whenever their business brought them along the same path, it resulted in short, if heated, affairs before they parted ways again. This manner of running to each other’s bed, without much thought of who might have shared it the previous night, made for a strangely safe and free relationship which both of them had come to appreciate and enjoy. Also, they knew each other like the back of their hands.

When she had betrayed him to Buckingham, Athos had felt as though more than his trust had been forsaken. He had loved her in an odd sort of way, and, if he dared look into his own heart a little deeper, he might have realised that the feelings for the adventurous and carefree redhead were still much alive.

The musketeer grunted into his cup and downed it entirely, tilting his head back to get to the last drops of red liquid that lingered in the bottom. As he did so, he noticed a large shadow from the corner of his eye. It blocked the moon’s light, darkening the room, and Athos stood as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. A sudden, wary feeling surged up from his gut and Athos moved closer to the balcony. He pried open the large window and peered out, his expression becoming black.

Airships floated in the sky; more than he could be bothered to count at such a late hour. They were silent as they drifted and separated over the city, like dark clouds in the night. Athos nudged Planchet with his boot and when the servant became startled by the sight above him, the musketeer bent quickly and covered his mouth with a glare for good measure. As Planchet began to move out of the way to give Athos room to stand on the balcony, there came many loud thumps as the flying ships dropped their anchors.

One that was hovering over the Seine dropped its anchor a short distance away from their home and it landed with a crash in the water, a geyser shooting up around the metal object. From behind him, Athos heard Aramis on the stairs; the noise had awoken him. D’Artagnan was soon to follow, trying to blink away the sleep that clogged his eyes and rubbing at his face with his wrapped hands. He had only returned from a guard shift but an hour or so earlier and was quite worn out.

“Athos, what is going on?” Aramis demanded. He gave a pained sound as his foot struck the table leg in the dark. He was dressed in only his breeches and his black hair was sticking up in many different directions.

Athos tilted his head towards the still open window, his face a mask of coldness.

“Buckingham,” he said stiffly, going into the corner to the shelf where they kept their equipment. Aramis leapt for the window, the Gascon following him now that he could see, and the pair of them looked to the sky with their shock reflecting on their faces. Planchet had scampered out of the way and was now sitting on one of the benches at the table, his blanket around his shoulders.

More thumps resounded along the river, and in the distance elsewhere in the city, and Porthos finally awoke, coming down the stairs, cursing heartily.

“God’s Blood, what’s with all the noise? Can’t a man get some decent rest?” No one answered him.

Athos found the telescope (1) they’d taken from the airship days prior and extended it, moving back to the window before putting the smaller end up to his eye and peering through it. He saw a ship drop anchor in the area of one of the city gates and gave a disgusted sound.

“He’s blocking the city gates!”

Porthos looked from Athos and his annoyed expression to Aramis and his thoughtful look.

“Who is blocking them? What the devil is happening?” Porthos demanded.

Aramis glanced at Athos with a frown.

“We should go to Monsieur de Tréville,” said Aramis as he turned back towards the stairs and took them two at a time back to his room to dress. Athos pushed the telescope back in on itself and tossed it to Porthos, who caught it in surprise.

“Look out of the window,” he said gruffly before going into his room.

Porthos looked down at D’Artagnan, who was still a bit sleepy.

“I still don’t get what’s going on, lad.” D’Artagnan only stared at him before sighing and dragging himself back upstairs with a yawn.

Porthos turned his attention to the window and when he looked out, his jaw dropped.

“Well, this does not look good.”

***

The Hôtel de Tréville in the Rue de Vieux Columbier was in a flurry of motion when Athos, Porthos and Aramis arrived; D’Artagnan had to report to Monsieur des Essarts. The streets had not been easy to weave through (they normally weren’t in Paris) but panicked people, many dressed in their night things, had come from their lodgings in search of what was causing all the noise and thus, blocked much of the streets.

Musketeers, both sleepy and awake, flowed in, their blue cassocks flapping with their movements. There was a constant noise of questions and exclamations and curses and it took Tréville giving a good loud shout to get the attention of his men.

Monsieur de Tréville was Gascon born and so, he was of slight stature. But not one of his men would say that they did not respect, love, and fear their captain. He was a just man who took insult from no one and commanded authority with ease. Though he was growing older and his hair greying, it did not stop him from leading his soldiers with all of his dignity and skill as a veteran warrior.

Now, however, Tréville was very much out of his element. He had heard of the ships fighting over Notre Dame of course, but that was only two ships, not an entire fleet laying siege to the city of Paris! His men had a right to be afraid of this new threat because how does one fight someone who has such an upper hand?

“Captain!” Tréville turned to see Athos, Porthos and Aramis climbing the stairs towards him.

“My office, you three!” he ordered, “I’ll be there shortly.”

They moved past the captain and left him to deal with the worried men before him.

“Listen to me, all of you! We may be besieged by the English but that does not mean they have beaten us. We must show them that they will not take France, and Paris, so easily and we must do so by being the soldiers and gentlemen we know we are.”

Tréville continued on, giving his lieutenants orders to change their patrols into paired teams and to double the amount of patrols done, sent some men off to try and see where the airships were located, and finally entered his office.

He scrubbed at his face tiredly as he sat at his desk, three of the Inseparables standing at attention before him. Tréville waved his hand for them to sit and so they did.

“Monsieur,” Athos began, “Buckingham has the city blocked. The anchors from the ships are in front of the city gates.”

Tréville sighed and leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk face.

“I figured as much. But you are sure that it’s Buckingham? No one else could have those plans?”

The three of them exchanged glances at this question. They knew far too well who else had the plans which they had so daringly attempted to retrieve from Da Vinci’s vault in Venice. But would Richelieu attempt such a daring enterprise against Paris, in the wide open? It was highly doubtful.

“We know of no one else, Captain…”

Tréville caught the hesitation in Aramis’ voice and he considered him, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed.

“Are you certain of this, Monsieur Aramis?” he asked pointedly.

“We’re quite sure, Monsieur.”

“We would recognise them at once, Captain.” Porthos quipped, “Hard to forget a thing that big.”

“I will have to see His Majesty at once,” said Tréville, standing, “and assure him that the musketeers can handle this threat.”

But as Tréville walked towards the door of his office, a voice seemed to echo from outside. Athos moved at once to open a window, and the voice became clear. It was Buckingham and it resounded all over the dark and panicking city. How he was making his words so loud was a mystery.

“People of Paris, I offer you a warning. Should anyone, and I do mean _anyone_ , attempt to leave the city at any time, I will not hesitate to burn Paris into cinders,” Buckingham paused, seemingly for the sake of the effect, “I shall contact His Majesty when I decide to make my wants clear.”

His voice died off and one could hear the fearful cries of women in the streets under the window and men fruitlessly trying to calm them as terror began to spread like a disease. Paris was now in the hands of the English. _  
_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_(1) Although the magnifying properties of convex and concave transparent objects have been known for several millennia, lenses, as we know them, have only existed since the thirteenth century. By 1450, people had the material and the knowledge to invent the telescope. It is rumoured that Leonard and Thomas Digges in England created the first prototype, consisting of a convex lens and a mirror. The telescope was officially invented in 1608 in the Netherlands. There remains to this day debate about who really created this useful tool that we still use today._


	4. Doubts & Rejection

The hallways were mostly deserted, except for the regular black-clad guards that were on duty every night at the Palais Cardinal, the very same palace which would later be known as the Palais Royal, but which for the time being, was still being held by the man of faith which had such a crushing influence over Europe.

Richelieu twitched slightly in his sleep, unaware of the somewhat unusual activity growing in the halls of his Palace, as a messenger came running, his face covered in sweat, and his eyes the size of two pistoles(1). Several shouts were heard from guards attempting to stop said intruder, to no avail, and the Cardinal stirred with a groan of annoyance. Before he could entirely collect his wits about him, the runner burst into his dark bedchambers, startling the man of state into jumping out of bed and reaching for the pistol which he kept on his night stand.

He had started taking this precaution since the death of Rochefort, his guard captain.

“Stop there or I will shoot”, he commanded, trying to peer through the darkness at the intruder who was painfully trying to recover his breath. Several more people came charging inside.

“I beg Your Eminence to listen to me!” The man cried, displaying his empty hands to the head of state. “We are besieged! Paris is being besieged by the English!”

“Your Eminence, we apologize for this intrusion, we will immediately thrash this man for interrupting your slumber, and-”

“Enough!”

The Cardinal went to his windows and thrust apart his curtains to reveal the sight of several airships anchored in the Seine or in the distance. This was an unexpected move from Buckingham, he thought to himself with a frown. He left the window to pull the bell cord near his bed to summon a servant.

“My robes,” Richelieu ordered when the servant arrived. The Cardinal was quickly draped in the long red robes of his station and he reached up to rub at his temples as a headache began to form with the thought of what he would have to deal with upon reaching the Louvre palace.

“Have my carriage prepared. I will be there momentarily.”

The messenger had regained his breath and the guards were still standing in the room, shifting awkwardly as His Eminence gave no orders to them. Turning to the messenger, Richelieu gestured for him to approach.

“Inquire, as much as you can, of Buckingham’s intentions and report to me if you find anything.” The messenger bowed lower and darted from the room. Richelieu smiled to himself. Louis would be eating out of his hand in this crisis and incapable of making a useful decision, so caught up he would be in his affront against Buckingham. Shortly after, Richelieu left in his carriage to make the short trip to the King’s palace; rather, it would have been a short trip if not for the people in the streets, who were occupied with staring up at the war machines high above them at this late hour.

The Louvre was awash with activity. Household staff and the courtiers with their servants were leaning from windows or standing in the main courtyard, trading whispers about the events taking place and forging their own inaccurate theories. Richelieu sneered in distaste. None of those fools of the pampered nobility could ever understand the danger of those machines.

The sight of royal musketeers in full uniform running right and left, organising the palace and seeing to its protection greeted the Cardinal as he walked in the Louvre. He glanced to his left and noticed two musketeers he vaguely recalled as Aramis and Porthos calmly talking to a group of worried looking people, nobles and servants alike. Shrugging them off, he made his way, unnoticed, to the King’s apartments, greeted at a distance by voices, indicating that the King was already quite awake and most certainly already aware of the situation.

Indeed, as two guards opened the doors to allow him passage, the first sight that greeted him was the King himself, hastily dressed in a robe, and the Queen, who had chastely covered herself with a shawl and a bonnet. She was obviously spending the night there, much to the Cardinal’s surprise. Tréville was also there, speaking animatedly, his gascon accent ever more present and his gesturing eloquent. Louis was listening to him attentively, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“… And so he announced that he would contact Your Majesty to make his demands known.”

“The scoundrel dares demanding?! I will have him known sooner rather than later that France is not to be dealt with in such a manner!”

“In the meantime, Sire, I have already deployed your musketeers in full war equipment, and they are ready and at Your Majesty’s disposal.”

Richelieu cleared his throat discreetly, and the two speakers turned toward him. Instead of looking pleased to see him, Louis frowned at his head of state.

“Ah Richelieu, you’re here finally. What say you to the situation at hand?” Richelieu kept his expression neutral but inside, his mind was scrambling. Tréville eyed the Cardinal with a slight sneer on his lips, looking as if he knew that His Eminence was as lost as the courtiers.

“Your Majesty,” began Richelieu, “I am quite sure that Buckingham’s display is only an effort by England to force your hand towards their demands in exchange for peace.”

Louis all but gaped at the Cardinal and Anne coughed behind her hand to hide her smile. Tréville shook his head and looked away, also hiding a full smile of his own.

“Richelieu, have you gone mad? Did you not hear Buckingham’s declaration as Tréville did?!” Louis demanded, almost in a panic. “That wretched Englishman has us under siege and expects us to _wait_ for his demands! What say you to that?”

“Perhaps His Eminence was sleeping far too well to hear the attack outside his windows,” Tréville quipped lightly.

“That will be enough Tréville,” said Louis but a smirk danced at the corners of his mouth.

Richelieu stood there a moment, fuming within at the captain of the musketeers. He was being made to look like a fool before the King by a man who made his living leading a bunch of hot-headed youths (and some who acted as if they were youths) whom had little to no skill to speak of.

Unbeknownst to them, the same messenger from earlier had walked in the room, and was standing at ease near the door, waiting for the Cardinal to become available.

“Tréville has organised his men to secure the castle and the perimeters of the Seine, and Des Essarts has doubled his force and has insured the safety of the population of Paris. What of your men, _mon cousin_?”

Richelieu felt the stares from all parties in the room, and he opened his mouth to reply when the young messenger walked forth, bowing deeply as he did so to both their Majesties and the captain of the musketeers.

“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon for intruding, but His Eminence had the majority of his guards dispatched to the perimeters of the city, while the remainder of them secured the royal armoury, and insured that weapons were promptly distributed. All men are at their post and ready for the suite of the operations.”

Richelieu cocked an eyebrow at the gall and the daring of the young guard, a recently appointed lieutenant. His announcement made, the fellow fell silent and remained where he was, standing at attention and waiting for orders.

The Cardinal turned back towards the King and slightly shrugged, gesturing towards his subordinate in a way that could be somewhat comical if the situation wasn’t so grave. The Queen pursed her lips and Tréville looked disappointed. He would have loved to see the Cardinal crestfallen and at a loss for words, for once!

“That is well,” Louis said, a small smile coming to his lips. “I knew that you would not fail me, Cardinal. I will expect full reports at eight in the morning, and do please find a way to contact that English buffoon up there? I want to know what he is after, _morbleu_! Gentlemen, you are dismissed.”

Tréville left promptly and Richelieu soon followed with the young guard, leaving the King and Queen to themselves. When the hall was empty, the Cardinal stopped the man.

“De Cavoie, is it?” The guard thus named nodded.

“Yes, Your Eminence,” he said.

“I expect you to have that report ready for me in few hours, Captain,” said Richelieu, offering his hand with its ruby ring. De Cavoie knelt immediately and kissed the stone.

“Thank you, Your Eminence. I swear I shall not fail you!”

“I have no doubt.”

***

“You want to do what?!”

“I want to join the Gardes Françaises, and protect Paris against the protestant invaders!”

Roderic motioned towards the sky as he said this, indicating the several airships that could be seen from the Pont Notre-Dame over the houses that were erected there. It was the morning after the siege had begun and recent events had been Roderic’s final push towards doing what he had been planning for so long now; leaving this hell to make a new heaven for Orianne and himself.

But now their father was bearing down on him, dark face becoming a bright red in his rage and a slight froth forming at the corners of his lips. The man had just lost his latest cook position in another noble house that had been the reason to move to Paris and he had been forced to remain at home when not sneaking off to drink and admire the tavern wenches. Their mother was away at the markets and scouring the refuse of the rich districts for discarded trinkets with which to fill the small, two room apartments. Orianne stood by the cooking hearth, drying a plate from their mid-day meal, biting at her lip nervously.

“You, my boy, are getting too big ideas for such a small man!” Rudolf bellowed, his finger jabbing harshly at Roderic’s chest. “What has this disgusting city ever done for you?”

“It has done more for me than you ever could have!” Roderic spat, blue eyes flaring with rage. “I have hope and purpose and you can NEVER take that from me!”

Suddenly, Roderic found himself on the floor, his jaw throbbing and his father panting above him from the force it took to strike. Orianne ran forward to grab at Rudolf’s arm, jerking back on his elbow to stop another punch and was backhanded for her efforts. In that time, Roderic had stood up and now, he tackled his father to the ground, sitting on his stomach and hammering him with blows until Rudolf landed one on his chest and forced him off.

Winded, Roderic staggered away, dodging his father’s enraged swings as he tried to regain his breath. Orianne nursed her face as she cowered in the door frame to the room she shared with their mother, stemming the blood from her nose with her wool sleeve. The girl looked up and saw Loanne arrive, run for the hearth and snatch up the pan. Orianne gave a garbled warning yell but Roderic heard too late as Loanne cracked the metal against his head and he lay still on the floor. Rudolf kicked him for good measure as his wife turned to their daughter, grabbed her upper arm and all but threw her into the second room, locking her in.

Orianne cried as she pounded on the door and jerked the handle, afraid for her dear brother’s life. But she was ignored and through her tears, she could not hear what was happening on the other side.

“Paris is a disaster, Rudolf,” Loanne said tiredly, “Everyone is panicking out there. The markets are ravaged and trying to get close to a bakery or bread stall is like wading through a pack of feasting wolves. It is utter chaos.”

“The French are stupid,” Rudolf spat, moving to his son’s bed in the main room and crouching to look underneath it. “If they were in Bavaria now, they would die in moments.” (2)

From under the bed, the man took his son’s valise and opened it and from that, he took the pouch of saved coins and a few other trinkets they had given to him on occasions of good behaviour.

“Try and sell these,” said Rudolf, tossing the things to his wife. “And get that daughter of ours to start working again on her lace. She could turn us a pretty amount of gold for her efforts.”

The German hoisted his son’s half-limp body under his right arm and took the valise in his left hand, beginning to drag him down the stairs.

“If you want to join the French fools then by all means, do so,” he said with a marked sneer. “But remember this, boy: should you ever darken our doorstep again; your sister shall suffer for it. You are not welcome here after rejecting everything we have taught and given you!”

Roderic awoke to find he was lying on the cobblestones in front of his house, his valise nearby, open and pilfered further by some other desperate Parisian, his face swollen, purpling and a taint of blood in his mouth from where a tooth had been dislodged.

**_(1) Our little historical piece of knowledge for today is the pistole, which was a gold piece worth approximately 11 livres and some odd sous, but was often said to be worth “10 livres tournois”. Just to establish a comparison, one écu d’or was worth six livres and one écu d’argent was worth three livres.  
_ **


	5. Favours & Friends

Roderic struggled to stuff his few remaining clothes back into his valise, growling a little when he saw that his money was gone, and limped to his feet. The street of the Pont Notre Dame was empty when compared to a normal day in Paris, where people would normally clutter along the edges and there was little space to pass without knocking someone about. Today, there were people, yes, but they were moving so quickly and were so jumpy that it was startling.

No one was talking or shouting as they went about their business; all tasks were done in a distinct rush. The city was on edge and it would not take much for riots to begin over the simplest things, like bread. In fact, before him, Roderic could see a large servant hunched over his purchases and gaze darting about as he made his way along the street. A dark brooding man was coming up behind him, dressed all in black from his broad hat with its large plumes to the dark leather of his boots. The young German frowned, and went to take a step forward to the defence of the servant when the two men climbed the stairs of the same house but a couple of houses away from his own.

Walking to the steps that led the door of the lodging, Roderic stared up with a thoughtful expression as that dark man had seemed so familiar to him. It took him a few moments to realise that this was the same man who had helped him move his parents’ things into their new home. Ignorant to how messy he was, and the blood that had begun to trickle from his nose, Roderic climbed the stairs and beat his fist on the door, leaning tiredly against the frame and wiping at his face irritably with his sleeve.

A few moments later, the door opened, and Planchet appeared, his plump figure taking most of the space in the frame. He looked down in surprise at the somewhat prostrate Roderic.

“What in the world happened to you?”

Before Roderic could answer however, the head of another man appeared over Planchet’s shoulder, and the newcomer pushed the servant aside, not unkindly, took Roderic’s arm and propped his other hand against his back to steady him.

“Poor young man, come inside, quickly,” he said, gently leading him up the two steps and through the door towards the small kitchen that they all shared.

“What going on, Aramis?” Porthos asked, sitting up a little straighter from his spot at the end of the bench closest to the hearth. “Who’s this lad?”

Porthos looked up at Planchet, who simply shrugged in response. D’Artagnan came down the stairs and stopped at the bottom, looking on as Aramis directed the young man to sit on the other bench at the table. Aramis then proceeded to order Planchet to get him a bowl of water and clean clothes to deal with the wounds he could see. Roderic leaned a little to one side at one point then swayed back again to rest against the table, his head feeling a little foggy. He felt the warm trickle of blood on his face again and reached up automatically to wipe it away with his arm. Aramis stopped his motion and quickly pressed a wet clean cloth in his hand.

“Use this instead, lad. Press it to your nose and pinch the bridge between your fingers as much as you can to stop the bleeding.”

Roderic took the cloth and did as the cat-like man bid him to, growling to himself with annoyance as he began to regain his senses. The floor looked quite worn from the scuffing of boots and there was a mark from where the bench had slid multiple times. He waited a few moments before bringing his head back up to look Aramis in the face.

“Monsieur,” began the young German testily, “I do not have time for this! I must speak with someone who lives here.”

Aramis was baffled by the sudden outburst from the wounded youth. He finished filling a cup with some brandy (1), earning him a huff from Porthos, and placed it on the table before the unexpected guest, rather more coldly then he would have normally done.

“Whom do you wish to speak to?”

Porthos looked at Aramis with a slight smirk, shaking his head as if what he saw was a great disappointment.

“Some people have no gratitude these days, is that not so Aramis?”

Aramis shot the man a quick glare (to which Porthos simply laughed) and returned his attention to Roderic, who was bent towards the floor once more. Roderic sat up and lowered the cloth from his nose (the blood now only drops instead of a flow) and spoke.

“A man came in here behind him,” Roderic pointed to Planchet then continued, “A dark gentleman who looked very much like a bear—”

“Athos,” said the three others simultaneously, much to the young man’s surprise.

D’Artagnan traversed the kitchen and knocked softly on the door leading to the elder musketeer’s room, and an odd sort of grunt came as a reply from within.

“He’s coming,” the young guard said. It was obvious that he, as well as the others, was used to this form of communication and understood its subtlety.

Sure enough, a few moments later, the door opened and Athos’ tall and dark figure appeared in the frame, his blue eyes surmising the scene before him, as he held an empty cup in his left hand.

“What is going on here?” he asked gruffly, pausing as he scanned the room and landing onto the newcomer’s face. He quirked an eyebrow and glanced at Aramis questioningly.

“This lad wants a word with you,” said Aramis.

“Looks like he went through hell to get the chance as well,” put in Porthos, taking a deep draught from his cup.

D’Artagnan sat on chair at the end of the table and examined Roderic with a curious air but this was ignored by the young man who had found what he was seeking.

“Monsieur Athos, I doubt that you recall me when you helped me two days prior,” Roderic stammered nervously, wringing the bloodied cloth in his hands. “But I come to you to seek your help.”

“You are in that German family who moved a few doors away one or two days ago,” growled Athos as he slumped on his chair, and thrust his cup into Planchet’s chest for him to fill it up again.

Roderic blinked in surprise and gave a warm smile, wiping at his nose only to find it had finally stopped dripping.

“Yes, Monsieur,” he said with a slight bitterness, “Indeed I am. And I have a younger sister there as well.”

He shifted on his seat and winced, rubbing at his chest with a weary look.

“You’ve been beaten. Who did this to you?”

A flash of anger and embarrassment crossed Roderic’s face and sat up straight despite his pain, looking Athos full in the face.

“That is not your concern, Monsieur Athos.”

Athos’ jaw set and his eyes flashed briefly. He took the cup from Planchet’s hand as the servant brought it back to him and stood to go back to his room.

“You can be on your way, then, boy.”

The young German looked outraged and began cursing rapidly under his breath. Aramis had long ago sat down in the chair at the other end of the table closest to the balcony and up until this point, had been reading. He looked up at Roderic over his spectacles, turning a page of the book in his hand.

“If you want help, you can’t hide such secrets,” he stated softly.

“There is nothing worth telling!” Roderic exclaimed sharply. Porthos glared at him.

“If it’s nothing then why not tell us?” he asked with a frown.

“Monsieur, no one asked you for your advice!”

“Athos won’t help you if you don’t answer his question,” D’Artagnan said slowly, glancing over to Athos’ room where the door stood open. Roderic growled, very much annoyed. His hands went into his dark hair and he pulled the locks tightly between his fingers, evidently struggling with bearing his soul to these four men whom he knew nothing about.

“It was my father! Does that suit you for an answer, Monsieur?” Roderic demanded, glaring with a flushed face at the empty frame leading to Athos’ room.

There was a silence, and then a shuffle. Athos reappeared at the door, looking unfazed, though his eyes had taken more focus as he examined the young man.

“Quite. What is it that you need my help for?”

“What I need,” said Roderic with a huff of impatience “is a great favour. I believe you to be a gentleman, Monsieur, and all that I ask is for you to check on my sister from time to time to see that she is alive and relatively unharmed.”

Here the young man sighed and rubbed at his face wearily.

“It is not far out of your way, as you recall, and I cannot do this task as I am no longer welcome in their home.”

Athos went back to his seat and set his once again empty cup on the table. He joined his fingers together in front of him and examined the face of the young man somewhat searchingly.

“Why should I do that? Even if it is indeed not too far away from here, what makes you think I have time beyond my duties as a soldier to watch over a little girl?”

“He has a point,” Porthos proclaimed. Aramis looked at him sharply.

“Porthos—”

“But it is true Aramis!” said Porthos, cutting off the quieter musketeer, “There will be no time to play nursemaid to some silly German peasant girl.”

Roderic listened and as he did, his expression gained a wounded look. He looked to the ground and gave it a listless sigh.

“Then you offer me little choice, Monsieur Athos,” he muttered coldly.

Roderic stood wincing and, to the shock of them all (as the four of them had expected him to leave), he got down slowly on his knees in front of the eldest musketeer and regarded him with a pale, wide-eyed, and worried stare. If one looked close enough, they may have detected a slight glimmer of tears starting to accumulate.

“I am no longer asking for your help; I am begging for it,” he began quietly, “My sister is all that I have left in this world that I still love and trust and now, I cannot protect her from those monsters that raised us.”

Athos stared blankly at the young man who looked barely a year or two older than D’Artagnan. The paleness, the haggard expression he could take, but the tears? He slowly closed his eyes and sighed, head shaking a little.

“On your feet, lad. I will watch over your little sister,” he said after a moment. He had no bloody idea where that nagging feeling came from. Was it compassion? Kindness? By God, he was getting just as soft as the priest-musketeer!

A smile burst over the young German’s face and he grabbed Athos’ hand, pressing it very warmly and jabbering away in his native tongue in evident relief. When he realised that no one understood what he was saying (D’Artagnan had even begun to laugh and Athos was beginning to get annoyed), Roderic released the musketeer’s hand and struggled back to his feet.

“Now that I have your word,” he said in his heavily accented French once more, “I can rest at ease knowing that she will be well. And now, I must go.”

He walked over to the door and bent to pick up his valise only to have Planchet hand it to him.

“Where are you going?” Aramis asked with a small smile. Roderic turned, leaning against the wall.

“I have to see Monsieur Des Essarts about a post in the guards. That was the reason I was kicked out, you see.”

“I am going there right now,” said D’Artagnan as he took his plumed hat from the hook near the door which he'd had Planchet nail in. “Why don’t you come with me? Des Essarts is looking for men now, and he’ll even help you find suitable lodgings, if you need them.”

Roderic looked, if it was possible, more relieved and nodded quite happily, accompanying D’Artagnan out the door and down the stairs while asking him question after question until their voices were soon out of earshot. Planchet shut the door behind them and returned to the main room.

“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” he said, still glancing at the door as if expecting another injured man coming to ask for help.

“Athos, have you gone mad?” Porthos exclaimed, looking at his friend with surprise evident on his face. “What in the world made you agree to this?”

“I must admit Athos, this is a bit odd for you,” said Aramis, “You are neither the most patient of us nor do you have the temperament to deal with a young lady.”

“What? Do you think me incapable to hold on to my word?!”

“You’ll probably get annoyed in less than a week since she’ll most likely talk as much as her brother!” said Porthos.

“I didn’t think he was so—” Planchet began.

“Shut up, Planchet.” said Porthos, cutting him off.

“Whatever… Thank you for the vote of confidence,” retorted Athos as he rose and stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

“Susceptible, isn’t he?” Porthos chuckled, looking at the closed door.

“You’ve only just noticed?”

**_(1) The historical fact for today concerns brandy, which is a drink made from grapes much like wine, with a different process of distillation. It made its first apparition in the 12 th century and gained its popularity in the 14th. It is said that it was first used as a process to lessen taxes on wine since it was assessed by its volume. The idea was that the water removed from the distillation process was to be added before consumption. But it was discovered that after being stored in wooden casks, the resulting liquid was much improved and tasted very different, and became quite appreciated._ **


	6. War Councils & A King's Resolve

It was late afternoon and the street was cooled somewhat from the shade of the buildings. There were few people left about and they were eager to return to their homes. Athos strode along the street, passing under an open shutter from which he heard the sound of something fragile breaking and a woman yelling.

“You’re an idiot, Orianne! If you weren’t so good at weaving, we would have kicked you out with your foolish brother. Germans are all the same; lazy, no-good, arrogant wastes!”

The screeching, annoying voice could be clearly heard even from the middle of the street. Athos paused in his tracks and listened as the tirade continued on and on, a sound that would have had him take to his heels and ignore normally, but which he forced himself to listen for the sake of his promise to the young foreigner. Cursed be his gentleman’s word.

It was true, though. The mother of the young lady did seem to be offensive in her behaviour toward her daughter, and for having seen the state in which the lad had shown himself at their doorstep, he thought, the father could not be much better.

But at this time, it was not in either Athos’ or the young woman’s best interests if the musketeer became involved in the dispute. He would keep his word, to be sure, but he would have to be cautious (which was truly not one of his better habits) and only come by when both the parents were away. Seeing as nothing could be done, Athos left the sounds of the angry mother behind, making his way to the nearest tavern in hopes of drowning the memories of his nightmares.

Rounding the corner, Athos found the tavern which he sought, The _Pomme de Pin_. It was a newer establishment but was rapidly gaining a reputable following. As Athos came to the door, a man a little taller than him stumbled out into the street, rather red-faced and slurring his curses. The musketeer regarded the man with a frown, struck by a sense of familiarity but brushed it aside for the sake of the drinks that awaited him.

The man continued his way along the Pont Nôtre Dame until he reached his home and Loanne came out to grab him under the arm as he almost collapsed on the stairs.

“Honestly, Rudolf, shouldn’t you be trying to find another job?” she spat with a snarl. The drunken German man only gurgled in response and, throwing his other arm out wide, he began to sing loudly and raucously. Loanne shuffled and bent double in order to drag her husband up the stairs.

“Orianne, you had better be still dyeing those lace cuffs when I get up there!” Loanne yelled.

Orianne squeaked and ran from her post near the door and back to the table where several pots of dyes were laid out along with some streams of freshly finished lace. A little further away were some bits of lace already coloured and drying: one a deep red, another one was a gentle green, and finally one was a pale yellow. The tips of her fingers were stained with colour, each one a different shade from prodding the lace gently into the dye.

“Get over here you idiot girl and help me with your father. And wipe your fingers!” But no matter how much Orianne would try, her fingers never came clean. She sighed and left her lace to help her mother throw her father into his bed to sleep off his latest wine binge.

***

Richelieu stared out the window of his office in the Palais Cardinal at the Louvre, which stood in front of it. The sun glared at him through the window panes, despite the numerous airships that littered the air and caused no end of murmurs from the streets of the city.

How had his life become so upside down in such a short time? For the first time perhaps in his entire political career, the Cardinal felt that there was a true challenge in the air, and from none other than the very child he thought he could manipulate so easily; the King of France!

_“Ah, Richelieu, I am glad you are finally here, there are many things we need to discuss this morning.”_

_The Cardinal paused as he entered the King’s office. Louis was sitting at the table with the Queen, dressed in a simple black armoured cavalier outfit; his wavy hair was pulled back and tied in a simple black ribbon. The contrast to the usual vain king which he knew was almost overwhelming. The Queen, dressed as per her habit in a somewhat Spanish inspired dress, smiled as she watched the King studying a map of Paris, where small boats had been placed to represent the location of the airships._

_“Tréville and Des Essarts have given me their reports on the locations of the airships around the city. Have your men found any possible way out of the city?”_

_Richelieu watched as Louis frowned at the map in evident annoyance then looked up at him with a hopeful expression. De Cavoie had come to him that morning with a rather dismaying report; no movement from the hovering ships but a description of many more moored and landed outside of the city raiding the farms and waiting to exchange places with those in the air._

_“I am afraid not, Your Majesty,” began Richelieu, approaching, “But we do know that there are more ships than what we can see above us. It seems Buckingham is resupplying his ships from the lands beyond the walls of Paris and if anyone should find a way out, he would certainly know.”_

_Louis pursed his lips and exchanged a dark glance with Anne, who sighed quietly and gently rested her chin on her fist, studying the map with more attention than ever._

_“With all due respect, Sire, all this is getting us nowhere. We should find out how these diabolical machines fly and bring as many of them down as we can!”_

_From the window where he had been watching the ships, a blond, stocky gentleman drew nearer, revealing his grey tabard & matching breeches; the uniform of the Guarde Française. His expression was one of explicit determination and his moustache quivered with indignation like a blond caterpillar that had been poked. _

_“Des Essarts,” Treville began, folding his arms over his chest, “you cannot seriously consider that an option?”_

_“It takes a man of war to make such an… energetic proposition,” Richelieu said, eyes narrowed, as he glared down at Des Essarts for daring to speak up out of turn._

_“A most energetic idea indeed, but which we’ll put aside for now, as we must consider the safety of the Parisians first and foremost,” said Louis, as he motioned kindly towards Des Essarts, effectively allowing him to speak freely before him._

_While Treville and Des Essarts poured over the map with the King and Queen, Richelieu stood back a moment with a confused frown. The King before him was not the same youth of a short time prior, humiliated by Buckingham for his clothes and pining after the Queen like one of his hunting dogs tailing a stag, but one showing slight reflections of his late father, Henri IV’s, greatness. These thoughts agitated the Cardinal as these signs of Louis’ shocking maturity meant a weakening of his power; something that he could not allow to continue. But he was a Churchman and from his experience, he had learned the value of prudence – when it benefitted him – so, he would be patient and wait for the right moment to regain his ground._

A knock startled him from his bitter revelry and Richelieu called for the person to enter. It was one of his own messengers dressed in his bright red livery.

“Captain de Cavoie is here, Your Eminence,” said the young lad. Richelieu waved his hand, still focused on the sight beyond his window.

“Show him in.”

De Cavoie entered, removed his hat and dropped into a low, sweeping bow. Richelieu turned to regard the young man and walked around his desk to stand before him, extending his hand. De Cavoie sank to one knee, grasped the Cardinal’s hand, and kissed his ruby ring.

“What is it you have for me, Captain?” asked Richelieu, circling behind his desk and seating himself. De Cavoie stood swiftly and began his report.

***

The sun was setting over Paris and the light struck the airships in such a way that their shadows spread in long patches of grey over some areas. The streets were quite empty despite the warm summer air. This would normally be the time for men to go out in search of a fine tavern; now, almost all the need to drink was gone except from those who had long ago made drinking one of their habits.

Aramis and Porthos trotted side by side along the cobblestones (1), their boots without spurs as they were going to be patrolling the Louvre palace in the night and it did not due to leave long scratches in the King’s floors. In Aramis’ sleeve was a hastily refolded letter from Tréville, summoning himself, Athos, and Porthos to his office at their earliest convenience for a meeting, which for all purposes meant now. But first they had to find Athos and after searching three different, partially deserted taverns that were his regular haunts, the pair of musketeers were close to giving up and going to Tréville without him.

“There’s that new tavern by our home that we haven’t tried Aramis,” Porthos remarked, sauntering along, having slowed from his trot.

“Fine but this is the last one Porthos,” Aramis hissed, very much annoyed at his companion’s slow gait, “Will you hurry up?!”

But Porthos did not hurry and Aramis was forced to slow down as well. They arrived to find the _Pomme de Pin_ reasonably crowded but quite subdued; there were neither any of the bawdy songs that burst forth when wine inhibited the mind nor were there any particular folk spoiling for a fight. They spotted Athos seated in a corner with a nice bottle of red wine and he glared at them upon their approach.

“There had better be a good reason for disturbing me,” he growled before swallowing from his cup.

“Tréville wants to see us immediately, before our shift,” said Aramis. Athos stood from his chair, counted a few coins from his purse for the wine, and led his two companions out of the tavern, as steady as any man whom had never been drunk.

It did not take them too long to reach the hotel in the Rue de Vieux-Colombier as the streets had somehow emptied even more still, save for some of the pairs of Guards they had passed on their rounds. Tréville's hotel stood highest on the normally active street. Activity increased slightly when the three inseparables walked into the inner courtyard and were welcomed by comrades whom, for practical reasons and also to avoid a similar fiasco to what Milady had caused at the Louvre, were practicing there.

As the three of them advanced in the courtyard towards the steps, the soldiers hushed and stood where they were, watching with a mixture of awe and admiration. The business of the inseparables rarely brought them to the compound of the famed musketeers, who were said to have the king himself for a captain. They were an elite, men chosen for their exceptional skill and daring.

The large number of musketeers seemed to part like the red sea had for Moses, allowing them clear access to the steps leading to the hotel itself, and from there to the office which every man amongst them feared and respected all at once.

In the antechamber at the top of the steps, what musketeers there were present became quiet as well and a lackey clad in Tréville’s livery entered his office in order to inform him of the arrival of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Upon hearing this, Tréville called for them to enter and so they did, remaining standing until they were told to be seated. Tréville peered at them over his folded fingers for a moment or two before he stood and walked around to the front of his desk. There was silence for a short time longer until Aramis, after looking from one companion to another in confusion, spoke.

“What is it you need of us, Captain?”

Tréville chewed at his moustache briefly and crossed his arms over his chest.

“His Majesty is worried about the state of his kingdom with these airships blockading Paris,” said the Gascon captain, “and we are in need of fresh ideas on how to deal with them.” Porthos went to speak but was cut off as Tréville continued.

“Knowing how these machines work is half of the battle because then, we can find a weakness,” he regarded his three best soldiers with a critically assessing eye, “You three have dealt with these before; I wish to know everything you know about them.”

Athos exchanged a glance with each of his comrades.

“As far as I could observe, Monsieur Capitaine, the airship steered much the same as any other ordinary one. The air within the strange giant pouch that serves as its sail is kept hot within by a large fire which is kept underneath.”

“Porthos and I,” continued Aramis, “noticed that firsthand when we jumped onto His Eminence’s own airship and ripped through the side of it with our daggers.”

Tréville froze in the midst of nodding slowly, his eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean ‘His Eminence’s airship’?” he demanded, “How did he get one of those and yet His Majesty has no defense against Buckingham?”

Porthos shrugged and stretched, folding his hands behind his head.

“Maybe you should ask the Red Duke that, Capitaine,” said the giant musketeer lightly. Tréville gave him a quick glare.

“I just might, Porthos,” he said with a sigh. “Be that as it may gentlemen, is there anything you can tell me about these ships? Everyone knows about the destruction they are capable of...”

“The airships are capable of much, much more than what anyone knows,” corrected Athos, his expression growing dark. “One alone could pose a serious threat to the capital with the fire power it holds. We have seen it in action, and the consequences could be catastrophic.”

He walked to the window and gazed down at the musketeers which had resumed their training.

“The only way we would have a fighting chance against the duke’s armada is if we had airships ourselves.”

***

The sun rose with a sharp brilliance and Athos shielded his eyes with a growl, Porthos groaned as he shook his head, and Aramis gave a wide yawn.

Tréville had dismissed them for their night patrol and it had passed most uneventfully. The courtiers were quite willing to remain in their rooms, even the most stubborn ones, given the circumstances. They had marched together along the halls, passing other groups that were settled in a corner here or there, engaged in a dice game or sharing tales of conquests.

Now, all they wanted were their beds and for Athos, a nice cup of wine. As they passed a partially full street, Porthos stopped and waved to someone.

“D’Artagnan, hurry up lad!” The young Gascon stumbled to them, eyes puffy with tiredness. “Come on, we’ll get Planchet to get you some wine and then we can all get some sleep.”

“Not a bad idea,” said the youth as he joined them. If the night had been uneventful at the Louvre for the three, not the same could be said around the walls for the young guard. His shirt was torn at the sleeve and he had dirt on his cheek. The feather of his hat drooped sadly over the edge, making him look even more like a lost boy.

“Did you have a rough night, boy?”

Athos quickly looked over the young man, checking him for wounds. Finding none, he resumed his quiet walk ahead with Aramis, while D’Artagnan walked with Porthos.

“Some of the Cardinal’s Guards got a little violent; they’d had too much to drink and were determined to climb down the walls. Des Essarts gave us strict orders to stop anyone trying to get out with any means we could so I had to stop them,” D’Artagnan pushed his hand into his hair, scratching at his sweaty scalp under his hat.

“Well, you did well,” Porthos said, clapping him on the back and almost throwing him to the ground, “But those damn guards need some sense knocked into them.”

“Let it be Porthos,” Aramis said tiredly, “We don’t have the strength to save you when you get yourself in trouble.”

They turned onto the Pont Notre Dame, staggering now and again as they were pushed around by the passing crowd in their half-asleep states. Suddenly, Athos stopped and fell back a few steps. In front of him were two women, one older and one younger and the older one looked furious.

“You stupid girl!” she exclaimed, grabbing at the young one’s upper arm and wrenching her to her feet, “Have you no grace whatsoever, Orianne? You are pathetic!”

Orianne rubbed tenderly at her arm where her mother had grabbed it and quailed under her fierce glare.

“Maman, I d-didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up idiot. You’re as useless as your brother.”

Something about the voice and the accent of the two women made Athos halt as he was about to turn around them to continue on his way. He peered at the younger one, whom the older had called Orianne… That name rang familiar… It was that strange German youth’s sister!

“It is all right, Madame,” he offered the older woman with a quick nod of the head. “It was merely an accident.”

Loanne looked the musketeer up and down and glared at him in turn.

“Monsieur, as you are a musketeer and probably have more bullets in your head than brains, I shall be brief. One should not encourage youthful stupidity!” she spat vehemently, grabbing Orianne once more.

“Come child, I am going to show you where you will buy the bread when, and if, I send you out. And put your damn hood up!” Orianne nodded fearfully, tugging sharply at the hood of her heavy cloak, careful to tuck all her mouse brown hair under it and making sure that it shadowed her face. She glanced back quickly at Athos with an apologetic face before she was torn away in a hurry by her mother.

“Charming woman,” said Porthos as the two disappeared in the crowd. “Colder than a witch’s tit, wouldn’t you say, Aramis?”

“Wasn’t that Roderic’s little sister?”

D’Artagnan’s question caused Aramis to raise an eyebrow at Athos, who looked sideways at him before shrugging.

“Yes, D’Artagnan, it was her,” finally said the musketeer priest with just a hint of a grin, as he watched Athos walking off towards their lodgings. Something in the expression of their elder friend told him that it wasn’t the last they would hear of this young lady.

**_(1) The history tidbit for today is about cobblestones, which were a very clever and lasting way to pave roads and streets, although the invention is not very recent. Similar constructions can be traced back to the Roman Empire, and can still be found today. Nothing like the flimsy pavement that workers splatter on our roads today! Potholes, anyone?_ **


	7. Searching & Safeguarding

Milady quietly swirled her wine glass in her hand as she gazed down at the city, not without interest. For days now, since Buckingham had made his announcement, the inhabitants of the besieged Paris had been like ants running about in a panic that was very entertaining from such a height. The spy had found amusing to watch the people scramble for any scrap of bread as though they were already running out and dying of hunger, even though Paris was certainly capable, as it was, to sustain a siege of several months.

“The Parisians look like such pathetic little insects from here, don't you think, my dear?"

Buckingham came up to her from behind, trailing a hand along her lower back before leaning forward on his folded arms on the railing. He looked down into the city below with a slight smirk. Milady glanced at him with a smile of her own, sipping from her wine.

"Quite, but why have I been brought here?"

“Because, my dear, I deeply enjoy your enthralling company, or course.”

He trailed off his answer with a coy smile and took her hand onto which he pressed fervent lips.

Milady took her hand away slowly and fiddled with one of the many thick folds of her skirt. She still wore the red dress as, since they had yet to land in any town with a decent tailor, she had been unable to purchase any new clothes. "I am honoured, Milord," she said, gently touching his shoulder and trailing down his folded arm. She paused a moment before continuing boldly. "Is that the only reason I am here?”

“As a matter of fact, there is another reason why I am sharing with you this view. I have had many an occupation in my travels to Paris, much more important than listing the lodgings of the one musketeer which interests us so. I know that you are aware of his whereabouts, and I need you to point to me the hole in which he hides.”

She blinked at him briefly and cocked her head to look over the edge with a curious, searching expression. She made Buckingham move aside as she strode along the one side of the ship then crossed the deck to the other side to repeat her steps. She gave a sigh and shook her head, turning back to the English Duke.

"Ah Milord, I am afraid it is useless for me to show you from up here," she said almost apologetically, "I am not used to seeing the city in this way. It is harder than being on the ground." She knew that Athos and his comrades lived near Notre Dame (the church was hard to miss after all) but Buckingham did not need to know this. In her mind, she was imagining Athos' shock when she was found to be still alive; it was such a delicious thought that she had to resist smirking.

“I see your point,” remarked Buckingham, although his eyes seemed to search her for a moment questioningly. “Well then, here is what I need you to do for me. I will put you down outside Paris and will give you a carriage for the city and four men to accompany you. I want you to locate where Athos lives and position all four men at the corners of the house so that I may see them from the airship and know where to look for if our… conditions are not properly met.”

"And how will you see the men from up here, Milord?" Milady asked, waving her hand out into the open air, "When I find Athos, I will need a better way to signal Your Lordship than just these four men. They will be practically invisible standing in the street."

She watched as an airship lifted off the ground and drifted towards one of the ships stationed by a city gate, hearing their anchors crack against one another as they exchanged places so the stationed one could land and the soldiers could feed.

“They won’t be with these.”

Buckingham reached behind him and showed Milady a large torch that seemed covered in a black substance, and smelled strongly of salt. He brought it to the candle on the table and it flared a deep, almost bloody red (1).

“I do seem to recall that red is your favourite colour,” he grinned.

"What genius," she said, the firelight dancing in her green eyes. She reached to take the torch from him and he pulled away, turning to drop the torch over the side and watching it as it fell into the river.

"Don't worry," he said, seeing her slightly bothered expression, "I have many more than that one." He left her side to yell out his orders to have them land.

She gave another glance down at the city and followed the duke inside. She went for the wardrobe and pulled it open, gazing at the different coloured clothing belonging to Buckingham inside. The man was worse than a peacock, to be sure. She pulled out a deep purple velvet doublet and pressed it against her chest as the duke watched, half titillated, half amused, and she pouted cutely at him.

“I wonder what I would look like dressed in this.”

He laughed heartily and stood from where he sat to pull her against his chest and kiss the tip of her nose.

“I’ll have a seamstress brought aboard and she can sew you a few dresses so that you can feel fresh and presentable while walking amidst all this rabble down there. After all, it wouldn’t do to send you out searching for your former boyfriend without proper apparel.”

Milady hummed, genuinely content at the perspective. As a lady used to wearing different dresses every day, nay, two or three times a day, the poor red silk thing she had been forced to wear for the past few days had been a cause of great grief to her. Her sentiment obviously showed, as Buckingham grinned coyly and wound his arm around her waist to pull her closer and kiss her.

"Come here, my dear," he purred in her ear, "And I will make that frown not mar your beautiful face."

She smirked, dropping the doublet to the floor and winding her arms about his neck. She played with some of the curls at the back of his head, twisting it tenderly around her fingers.

“What will happen should the King refuse your demands?” she purred, tipping her head in a curious expression.

“I cannot make little of my promises, now, can I? Paris will burn.”

In her mind, she thought about how easily Buckingham spoke of destroying an entire city such as Paris. The power and certainty in his words of his success was awe-inspiring to say the least. She liked this in the men she frequented, the ease and the assurance which they displayed to match her own. It was that, perhaps, which had drawn her to Athos in the first place…

"By the way," began Buckingham slowly, "You never did tell me how you ended up in the Channel for us to fish out in the first place."

Milady froze, blinking like a deer spotted on the hunt before it ran, and she gave a soft, mirthless chuckle.

“Well, I did tell you that Athos wanted me, did I not? He captured me while I was out for a carriage ride and wanted the war machine plans. When I told him I didn’t have them,” she stopped for here for a moment with a deep sigh, “he became angry and pushed me from the ship.”

Buckingham’s expression was hard to read at these words. He contended himself with holding her close to him, caressing her hips beneath his thumbs.

“We’ll make him regret this unwise move, won’t we, my dear,” he said softly with an odd grin.

She nodded quietly, taking his face in her hands and leaning in for a quick kiss.

“Yes, we shall.”

*********

The Pont Notre-Dame had quieted a great deal in a week, since the arrival of the airships and the proclamation given by Buckingham to all Parisians. The town folk had gotten used to seeing these strange vessels lurking high above their heads, and a semi-normal activity had settled within the walls. The only difference was the increased presence of patrols in the streets, and the inordinate calm that such a presence could often cause.

The situation had even regulated amongst the companies that served the King and the Cardinal. Fortunately, or perhaps not so, both the musketeers and the guards had settled in a routine that was quiet, repetitive and quite dull.

Athos yawned widely as he walked along the street with Aramis, who was holding a pistol casually to his own shoulder and was unaware that the compacted powder within the canon was slowly leaking along the back of his cloak. It was midday and most shop owners and street vendors were in the shade taking whatever meal they could have before returning to their labour.

The both of them looked up as an airship idly passed over the rows of houses on each side of the bridge and the sound of raucous singing floated down to them. The English did not lack for food or entertainment, it seemed. Athos watched as the large sailing boat disappeared behind the cathedral before resuming his walk, followed by Aramis who seemed slightly put off by the apparent display of opulence.

“I cannot believe the nerve they have,” he muttered, glancing sideways at Athos, who simply looked back with mild interest as he kicked a small stone out of his way. “They are feasting on our resources while the Parisians are slowly creeping towards starvation. It is disgusting!”

Athos gave a noncommittal grunt but inwardly, he knew that the musketeer priest was right. These lavish displays were sure to, one day or another, cause the ire and impatience of some of the held city captives and there was bound to be someone who would try to escape. What would happen to Paris then?

“What do you think Buckingham wants, anyway? It is not in his character to hold out in this manner when he is usually so eager to boast.”

“It isn’t obvious, Aramis?”

Athos stopped in his tracks and faced his friend who scrutinized his traits, looking for meaning behind the question.

“Our little escapade at the Tower of London has more than tickled that boasting nature of his which you were just now speaking of. He wants revenge and he wants it cold.”

Aramis quirked a brow up at Athos’ words and chuckled silently.

“Why Athos, I do believe you made a jibe,” he said, slightly teasing. Athos ignored him and continued to lead the way along the street.

“Come, There is something I need to do.”

Over the week that had passed ever since he had last stood beneath the windows of the German household, the four inseparables had more or less spent the majority of their time between the Louvre, the Hotel de Tréville, the walls of Paris and, whenever they could find a moment to spare, their beds. Athos reflected that for all this occupation which Tréville was putting them through to further study the airships and to protect the King and the inhabitants of the city, he had barely been able to spare but a thought to the young woman whose parents could be heard screaming at every hour of the day or the night.

He had met with Roderic on one of his rounds, and the young man’s still healing wounds had decided Athos to attempt what had been on his mind for a few days; to introduce himself to Orianne while both her parents were away.

The Teutonic family’s windows were all shuttered tightly except for one, where a small white candle gave a faint glow that could but barely light the room. Athos gazed at this solitary flame in the darkness and he cocked his ear as Aramis stood next to him, visibly puzzled.

“What are you doing, Athos?”

“Hush. I’m listening.”

The musketeer priest bristled at the admonishment but remained silent all the same. Athos had never asked something of him or their friends without a good reason, after all. The older musketeer listened for a moment longer, and then seemed satisfied as he moved towards the door and turned the knob gently to open it. The panel swung with the slightest creak and Athos walked inside, motioning for Aramis to follow him.

“What are we doing here,” whispered the latter as he complied at the former’s unspoken request. “What is this house?”

“This is where Roderic used to live,” said Athos in an offhand manner, as he felt for a step with the toe of his boot, found it and started ascending the stairs to the second floor.

“Ah yes, that young man that fell on our doorstep. So then, we must be here because…”

“Yes, we are here for his sister.”

Athos’ short reply was better than nothing. Aramis, in any event, had heard just like the rest the promise that his older friend had made to the youth about his younger sibling. Still, it gave the musketeer priest an odd feeling to see this sort of task entrusted to his friend. It was well known that the eldest of the inseparables was more than a little rough around the edges, and it was just as likely that he would know how to deal with a shy, innocent girl as it was for Porthos to dress like a monk.

The porch was dimly lit by an oil lamp that looked like it could have belonged in the house of a baron with its pearly gold surface but for the handle, which had been twisted at an odd angle and almost dangled off the object. This poor lamp sat on a rickety table which had been lined with what appeared to be a baptiste handkerchief that had seen a nose too often. The overall arrangement was an eye sore.

Athos gave the door a sharp rap. The two musketeers waited a few moments and they barely heard the door open. A pale blue eye over a high, pink cheek stared out at them.

"Who are you?" she asked nervously, "Do you have something to pick up?"

Athos looked through the small opening. As he had his back to the light of the candle, his face was covered in more shadows, he knew it. It would not do to frighten the girl by remaining there any longer than it was necessary.

“I came at the request of your brother, Roderic. He asked me to make sure that you were well.”

The door was flung open and Orianne's eyes were wide. She leapt at Athos, almost grabbing the front of his doublet with her shaking fingers before she wound the digits together and clasped her hands as if in prayer.

"You know my brother?" she demanded, her voice quivering but sounding distinctly german, "Is he well? Is he safe? He was not too injured, was he? I have not heard from him in so long, I thought he had died in the street!"

Athos took one step back at the sudden flood of questions. Why had he agreed to this? Aramis noticed his discomfort and placed a gentle hand atop Orianne's.

"Your brother is sound, mademoiselle, have no fear. He lives near the Luxembourg and keeps himself busy guarding the city under Des Essarts' orders."

Orianne sighed with relief and offered the men a warm smile.

"I'm glad. He has wanted to serve for a long time; ever since I was small." She looked back over her shoulder thoughtfully for a moment before looking at them again.

"Would you gentlemen like to come in?" she asked nervously, taking her hands away from Aramis' and wringing them over the front of her skirt.

"We'd love to," said Aramis for the still mute Athos. "By the way, my name is Aramis and my friend is Athos.

"Pleasure, Messieurs," she said with a small, shy curtsy. "My name is Orianne."

The small lodgings were nothing like either of them had ever seen before. As Athos sat on an old wooden chair with a nervous smile for Orianne, Aramis walked to the table in the center of the room. Its surface was covered with lace and bowls of dye, with which the young woman had been working before their impromptu arrival. Despite the stains in the wood, the table still appeared to be the cleanest area of the entire room. The walls, corners and much of the floor space were covered with a collection of gaudy, dirty and or broken baubles which could have only been found in refuse. Aramis had to call on all his self control not to show his revulsion. Surely none of this was the work of the young woman who stood before them, still wringing her hands nervously. She was dressed plainly, poorly, even, but her posture denoted a certain grace, a sense of pride that was perceptible only for a keen observer like himself.

Noticing Aramis' observing of the room, Orianne became apologetic.

"My mother has a thing for collections. She takes treasures from the discards of noble houses and uses them here to make our place look..." She trailed off then moved slowly to the work table, eying both Athos and Aramis nervously in turn before bending low over a cuff of lace and pulling at it carefully to check if the colour had soaked through.

"Slovenly?" At Orianne's visible flinch and Aramis' glare, Athos quickly amended. "Uhm... Ornate?"

"No, Monsieur, your first word was more descriptive," said Orianne, taking up a needle with a frown and pushing it through a hole in the lace to try to clear a clumped bit of dye. Her fingers worked easily with the cuff, spreading it gently so as not to tear or stretch it into an unsightly mess and she searched for more stuck together clumps. She sighed as she spotted another and set to work on it.

A few moments of silence ensued in which Athos sat there observing her work. Aramis glanced at him encouragingly as he sat near the window and gazed down at the now growing activity, since the midday meal hour was over. The older musketeer swallowed a little and stood from his seat. Why was he so nervous? And _morbleu_ , why were his hands so clammy?

"Roderic wished me to ensure that you were well," he started somewhat awkwardly. "He wanted to know if you had everything you need."

This had no sense. Why did he feel he was stammering like a boy?

Orianne brushed some locks of mousy brown hair behind her ear in order to see him better out of one eye. She had moved on to dipping a lace stream in a darker coloured dye.

"I am as well as one could imagine," she said blandly, sounding much rehearsed. She looked at them suddenly, dropping the lace and biting her lip.

"I am so thick sometimes. I did not offer you anything to eat, Messieurs!"

"There is no need, mademoiselle," the musketeer priest said warmly. "We really should leave; I suspect your parents might not like to find two strange men in their home."

His eyes twinkled with mirth, despite the seriousness of his words. Athos' hesitation had not escaped him.

Orianne's hands went to her face and smeared fingerprints around her mouth, which was open in a fearful 'O'. It seemed she had not considered the risk before allowing them into the lodging.

"Oh _morbleu_ no! If they found you..." She did not finish but was now torn between hurrying them out the door and running back to the half opened window to watch for her parents.

"They won’t," Athos said simply, somewhat regaining a little countenance now that he knew he was close to leaving. "I will come back sometimes when they are not here to look on things."

He took her hand in his and pressed his lips briefly to it before walking out the door. Aramis shook his head with a small smile and he gently pressed her hand, half in reassurance, and half in parting.

"Have a good day, mademoiselle, and do not worry too much about Athos. He has a rough exterior, but a kind heart."

Orianne nodded and waited quietly as Aramis went to join his friend downstairs. When she heard the main door close, she ran to the window, tripping on her skirt and sending the nearby candle skittering across the floor in her haste to watch them leave.

**_(1) Today the historical lesson is regarding coloured fire, which really has been in existence for thousands of years, even though the coloured ones are only a recent experience. China is the country that they originated from, and at the beginning, they came only in white or yellow. We made a small anachronism here to match Milady’s declared favourite colour, a little wink to the movie._ **


	8. Privacy & Patrols

The desk was littered with papers, most of which were covered with lists and numbers, and the few others were state documents. This mass amounting to the work done by Richelieu had been dutifully collected, kept, and stored by Queen Anne over her short time as Louis’s wife. Many of them had, of course, been given to her long after their immediate use, which had annoyed her extremely. His Eminence was, indeed, taking his position as First Minister seriously; however, she found it disconcerting how easily he had taken over all the details of the realm without truly differing to the wills of his monarchs, so she had demanded copies of anything in which their name had been used.

Now, Anne was in the middle of schooling her husband about the information before him and the poor King was growing flustered with confusion and disbelief at the amount of the duties he had neglected. It had been so much easier when all he was concerned with was competing against Buckingham’s affluence and (though he would never admit it) Buckingham’s charm.

“This one, here, is dictating the requisitions of the palace,” said Anne, indicating the latest parchment sheet she set before him to view. “How much was bought, how much it cost, all incredibly simple.”

Louis nodded, quite aware of the headache that brewed at his temples. He had a war council in an hour and he had chosen to occupy the time not with frivolous games of fishing in the fountains but learning to be aware of his kingdom.

“It is quite a large figure,” said Louis nervously, “but I suppose it is necessary to feed the Court.”

Anne could not help but laugh a little and Louis regarded her with a warm smile. He frowned again as he looked to the table and took another sheet of numbers.

“What is this?” he showed it to her and her brow furrowed.

“Honestly, my lord, I do not know. From what I can tell, His Eminence made use of quite a bit of money from the Treasury—”

“Perhaps it was for my gift that the spy Rochefort had wrecked?” said Louis, smiling proudly at his ‘estimated’ guess. Anne nodded slowly, knowing the truth about the affair of Richelieu’s ‘gift’ to her husband but saying nothing as it would deeply compromise her. She and Louis were getting along so well; she did not want that jeopardized by accounting the tale of her stolen diamonds.

There was a knock at the door and Louis’s valet entered, informing their Majesties that the war council was assembled and waiting. Louis offered Anne an apologetic glance. Anne stood and remained standing, curtseying to Louis when he bowed to her, and did not sit again until he had left with the valet for the meeting. She then began to try and organise the papers into piles but was wholly distracted by the arrival of Constance, whom had been seeking her out to settle a quarrel that had begun between two of the other Queen’s women. Anne sighed and reluctantly abandoned her task. Sometimes being a monarch was a redundant chore.

Time passed, following the sun’s well-traced pattern in the sky. Anne had returned, at last, to her organising attempts, having feigned the need to finish her correspondence in order to send her ladies away. Constance had seen through this and had quietly offered any help she could, which Anne had refused but smiled at nonetheless.                                                                                                                                                                             

“By God, I hate that Englishman!”

Anne started in her seat and looked up from a paper as Louis burst in and then paced back and forth in the office. The war council had just ended and the King was in a fury. He stopped by a window briefly and made a noise of disgust upon sighting a ship.

“He really is arrogant,” said the Queen softly, watching her husband’s worry and indignation.

“He has yet to make his demands! This is becoming ridiculous. I am the King of France! I am not to be treated like a commoner.” Louis declared, biting at his lips. He held his head in his hands as he dropped into a chair. Anne approached him and removed his hat, beginning to stroke his scalp gently with her long white fingers.

“My lord, you will find a way to beat him back,” she said assuredly, “I know you will. And England will never dare try something like this again once Buckingham is humiliated.”

The King sighed and looked at Anne, her hand still on his head. He gave her a nervous smile and reached up to touch her cheek.

“Anne, we are alone. We need not be so formal, my dear.”

Anne returned his smile and nodded, kissing the line that made the part in his hair.

“As you wish, Louis.”

They stayed silent for a time, lost in each other’s company until Louis gave a loud sigh, pressing his palms into his eyes and rubbing tiredly.

“Perhaps we should continue with my lessons in my kingdom’s affairs,” he said wearily. Anne shook her head, left his side for a moment, and returned with a chair of her own to sit in. She placed it beside him and sat, taking his gloved hand in her own pale ones and pressing it.

“I think not Louis. You are worn from the day. Shall we discuss... hunting?” she asked after a moment’s thought. She had remembered that when Louis had not been obsessing over his wardrobe or was not being manipulated by Richelieu, he had taken long hunting excursions. It was one of the main things she had overheard the courtiers remarking on about Louis: his love of the hunt, whether it was with falcons or dogs.

They spent their time well into dinner time talking of this and it was only when one of her ladies had come searching for Anne that they abandoned their privacy for the troubles of Court life.

***

The sunset cast a bloody glow over the city as D’Artagnan walked alongside Roderic through the cobblestone maze that was Paris. Their boots clapped soundly in a solid rhythm, their grey uniforms flapping about their knees, and their swords clicking against their hips. Roderic took a deep breath, stretching his arms out and over his head before swinging them loosely at his sides, smacking his hands together in front of him and making the leather gloves creak. D’Artagnan yawned and cursed internally at being put on yet another night patrol, begging for the time to pass swiftly so he could return to his bed in the morning.

“Is it always so quiet at night?” Roderic asked, inclining his head to look down at D’Artagnan. The Gascon looked up, chuckling as he thought of how this man, who was older than him by a few years, was asking his opinion on a city D’Artagnan barely knew himself.

“From what I’ve seen, the silence is quite unique. My friend Porthos has told me some stories of nasty fights that happened with rogues in the street.”

“Do you think we will fight any tonight?” Roderic asked eagerly, gripping the hilt of his new sword tightly. He had only recently finished his training with the blade and wanted to try out his new skills. D’Artagnan shook his head, plodding forward, his two steps to one of the German’s.

“I doubt it. The war machines are scaring people still. No one should be out.”

Though disappointed, Roderic did not show it. Instead he sighed and they stopped in an empty square that, by morning, would be bustling with a market.

“It is strange how different Paris is to anywhere else I have lived,” muttered Roderic with a frown. D’Artagnan tilted his head and came up alongside his new comrade.

“You know, Roderic,” he began, “you never told Athos or any of us, really, where you came from or even your name. How would we find you?”

“I would have thought my accent made it obvious,” Roderic smirked, “Although I rarely hear an accent like yours here so maybe it is not so clear.”

“I come from the south of France,” said D’Artagnan, smiling as he thought of his home, “From Gascony. I came to Paris not that long ago to become a musketeer.”

“You hail from south?” Roderic frowned; his brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I do not know much about Europe but isn’t Spain the southern neighbour of France?”

“Yes indeed, Roderic,” said D’Artagnan, “It is warmer there than it is here. It almost feels like fall here compared to Gascony.” Suddenly the younger man smirked and began walking backwards as they left the square, facing Roderic.

“I’ve told you a fair few things about me. Now it’s your turn.” Remembering how talkative Roderic was when he had come to the home D’Artagnan shared with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, the Gascon expected to get a long winded, but thorough, answer.

“I am originally from Bavaria,” said Roderic, “as is my sister, Andréa, or rather Orianne as she has been raised with that name. I lived there for five years with my mother before—”

“You mean your parents, don’t you?” cut in D’Artagnan curiously.

“No,” stated Roderic sternly, “my mother. The fools who raised Orianne and I were not my relatives by blood, but by law. After my sister’s birth, my mother found it too difficult to take care of us both as her love could not feed us and clothe us. She abandoned us at a seminary, making me promise that I would always care for Orianne and protect her from harm as she would have done for both of us.”

The moon appeared from behind the shifting clouds and cast silvery beams of light between the buildings. Roderic looked up at it for a moment before closing his eyes with a shaking breath, holding back the tears that were pricking his eyes. He dared not cry before D’Artagnan over something that had happened so long ago.

“The priests there were willing to take me in to be cared for and trained but wanted to have Orianne taken to a convent. Although it was nearby, I would never truly be allowed to see her again and I could not bear to be separated from my only family. I was only five years old, you see, and I had made a promise to my mother. Whenever they tried to take Orianne away, I went with them. Since they wanted to keep me there, they had no choice but to keep her as well.”

“That still doesn’t tell me your name or how you ended up in Paris,” said D’Artagnan, now walking alongside the older man.

“I’ve shared enough considering the little you told me,” stated Roderic, punching his comrade lightly on the shoulder. “How did you meet your friends? They seem a bit old for you.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, starting to laugh. He had to muffle himself as he remembered his arrival in Paris, acting like a charging bull the entire time. When he calmed down enough to speak, he told Roderic the story of how he’d wrecked Athos’ shirt (and had yet to pay for the damage), how he had embarrassed Porthos before his latest mistress (while not mentioning that the woman looked much older than a traditional mistress), and how he had ‘assaulted’ Aramis with a crumpled ticket (which he had never dealt with to this day.) Roderic blinked at him astonished through it all, laughing boisterously, when he did laugh, and causing the pair to almost have a couple of chamber pots emptied on their heads for disturbing the sleeping people.

“That is an interesting acquaintance but I would think they’d rather kill you than make friends with you,” said Roderic.

“You have to tell me more first,” D’Artagnan said. They were now crossing a bridge, the moon high above their heads and misted with clouds once more.

“Our parents came to the seminary since, I assume, they could not produce children. They wanted a son and they wanted me. Again, I refused to leave without my sister and they agreed to take her too. They gave her a new Christian name (as I was too old for mine to be changed) and wanted us to take their name. I have tolerated it until now but I made sure that Orianne knew that our name was once Winterkorn.”

D’Artagnan tilted his head; Roderic’s voice sounded so sullen and tired.

“Winterkorn... That is an interesting name; very German,” he said with a smile. “So you have lived with them for...?”

“For 17 long and painful years, Monsieur D’Artagnan,” said Roderic bitterly, “and we constantly moved for all that time. Monsieur my Father served in noble houses as a cook but his temper always got the better of him, so we always had to leave for another household, another princely state, and for the last three years now, we have lived within France’s borders.”

“Well, Monsieur Winterkorn,” D’Artagnan said teasingly, “I think it is about time for your life to change.”

In order to try and disperse Roderic’s melancholy, D’Artagnan delved into the story of the duel against forty of the Cardinal’s men in Cooper’s Yard without waiting to be asked. It seemed that sharing his story had put a weight on his comrade’s shoulders and D’Artagnan wanted him to try and forget it, if only for the night. Roderic’s laughter was strained and when D’Artagnan looked at his face, it appeared pinched with a mixture of worry, loss, and fear.

“Athos says that Mademoiselle your sister is well, Roderic,” said the Gascon, “and I promise she will continue to be so. You can trust Athos to watch her as he promised. He has yet to let me down.”

Before Roderic could answer, sounds ahead of them drew their attention and as they came closer, they realised it was a struggle between the men in an alley. The smell of drink wafted towards them and one of the men turned with a belch to leer at the two young men.

“Look at this! A couple of tiny fish in uniforms here to cause trouble,” said the man with a cackle.

A young woman yelped from behind him and Roderic drew his sword, charging forward just before D’Artagnan, and leaping into the pack. There were four of the drunken men and the two guardsmen were sufficient in driving them away from the woman, although Roderic had suffered a fair amount of blows due to his inexperience. When they had escorted the woman to the tavern where she worked, Roderic’s eye was swollen and he flinched whenever he was using his left side; his ribs had been bruised in the scuffle.

“I guess I lied,” said D’Artagnan, nursing a split lip from a lucky strike he had been dealt. Roderic looked at him with a raised brow, confused at his words. D’Artagnan smirked then flinched as the expression stretched the cut. “It seems the scum of Paris still thrives despite the danger.”


	9. Truces & Tripping

Richelieu watched as the sun crested the horizon, throwing the airships into a sharper relief in the sky beyond his windows. He frowned, lifting a hand to stroke a finger along his mustache. The King’s new found interest in the affairs of France, courtesy of the Queen, was troubling him. He did not need Louis knowing how to run the kingdom and thus, have less need of him.

But did it do to continue his charade as Louis’s most trusted minister? Was it wise to allow his power to be so usurped by a youth with so little knowledge beyond holding grudges? Why was he so concerned? Kings before Louis had tried to take control of their kingdoms alone and had quickly lost interest in the work, preferring to satisfy their own pleasures and whims rather than govern. There would always be a need for a first minister to lead while the King sat back and indulged in the society of Court.

Richelieu moved to his personal desk and sat, placing a small scroll before him and etching a short note on to it. Perhaps, allying himself with Buckingham (in manner of speaking) would be beneficial. At the very least, it would offer some protection. He would not attack Buckingham and, in return, he would not be attacked. The King need not know. Richelieu stood, pulled a bell to summon his valet, and sent the man away to the pigeon keeper with coins to ensure their silence.

Now all he had to was wait and see if Buckingham, in all his cockiness, would accept.

***

Orianne lightly pushed open a shutter, poking her head out to feel the sunlight on her face. The street below pulsed with the flow of Parisians and she regarded them for a few moments before sighing and retreating from the window. It would not do to be seen. It was forbidden; no one, save her family, was to know she was here.

But Roderic had broken that rule and had enlisted a gentleman to check on her well-being, thus informing someone outside their circle of her existence. Orianne smiled softly as she thought of Athos and Aramis. Though she had not seen them for two days, she wondered how they fared. It wasn’t often that she was able to make friends; she hardly remembered having a friend beyond her older brother. She considered these gentlemen her friends, despite the short acquaintance, and hoped that they would come around again soon.

She looked around at the cluttered interior, nudging a chair with a cracked back with her wooden shoe. _Monsieur Athos was right_ , she thought, _this place truly looks horrid and it is impossible to dust._

Her thought was accurate as there were many things in the cramped space that, more often than not, her dusting caused several trinkets to tumble and break and she was punished for every one that was destroyed. Orianne carefully stepped around a table so that her skirt would not knock anything off and moved to her table, the only clear place in the room save for her parents’ beds. Upon it was some half finished lace in which she had patterned flowers like the ones that decorated the frame of her mother’s treasured cracked mirror. She pulled a lit candle closer to her and squinted down at her work.

There was a knock at the door and Orianne looked up from her bobbins and pillow curiously. Her mother had not mentioned anything about someone coming to pick up an order today. As Orianne was also an average seamstress besides a quality lace maker, her mother often consigned her to sewing for the bourgeois who could not afford the labours of those that served nobility. The young woman set down her tools and went to the door to open it but a crack to see Athos standing alone in the hall beyond and dressed in similar black doublet, black breeches, and polished boots that he had worn when they’d met.

“Monsieur Athos, this is a surprise!” she exclaimed. The man, tall and proud and rather rugged looking with his face covered with his beard, looked down at her from his solemn blue eyes. He nodded to her and entered when she opened the door fully to him, walking over and taking the other seat across the table from hers. His silence and chill manner unnerved her slightly, distracting her, and as she closed the door she did not take notice of a bit of her skirt becoming caught by it. She turned and fell, tearing the fabric free from the rest and thus baring her ankle and sprawling herself on the floor.

Athos stood and came to her, crouching down in front of her as she climbed onto her knees, cheeks flushed red in embarrassment. He offered his hand, which she took, and helped pull her to her feet. Orianne refused to look him in the eye, so deep was her shame at yet another of her clumsy displays. Yet Athos said nothing, only taking his hand away and reseating himself once she was on her feet once more.

He watched as she moved around the room in nervous strides, fingers fluttering over objects and sometimes catching them before they hit the ground. Athos sighed, removed his hat, and set it on the table.

“Calm down before you break something,” he said gruffly. She stopped and blinked at him like a deer sighted by the hounds for a moment before nodding and returning to her chair. She leapt up again only once to take his hat and hang it on a peg by the door before continuing with her lace making. Athos had been looking out the window but her movements spotted out of the corner of his eye drew his attention and he watched as she shifted her wooden bobbins, removed and added pins to hold the pattern in shape, and weaved the white thread over the brown band that wrapped the pillow. While she was so clumsy on her feet, her hands moved with a determination and a sureness of her actions that astonished him, though he refused to show it.

The two sat quietly, Orianne doing her best to ignore Athos and Athos dividing his attention between the bit of blue sky that showed through the only open window and her flicking fingers. From time to time, Orianne stopped working and looked across the table at the brooding man. His wavy hair was pulled back into a loose tail at the nape of his neck and looked tangled beyond measure; however his beard and moustache were kept in decent order. His black clothes gave him a noble mien, one of pride and solidarity, instead of one of severity. She dropped a pin and leant down to retrieve it, taking a look at his legs as she did. Where the fabric was pulled tighter from him sitting, she could guess that he had strong limbs despite his thickness that came either from his older age or, like her father, from drinking.

 _It must be from the fighting and riding_ , she declared in her head, sitting back up again and catching his eye, blue meeting blue in a holding stare. She blinked at him, straightening with tension, afraid she had been caught examining him when he spoke.

“Found your pin?” he asked in a deep rumble, standing and brushing at his knees. She nodded but when she realised he wasn’t looking at her, she responded with a stammering affirmation that yes, she had found her pin on the floor. A bell chimed in the distance; Athos pulled out a pocket watch and his eyes widened ever so slightly. He had spent three quarters of an hour here simply watching her. He shook the watch gently, tapped its face, and held it to his ear to make sure it was still ticking and not fooling his eyes. Indeed, it was no trick; he had spent a good part of an hour watching a young woman make lace.

“I shall take my leave, Mademoiselle,” he said, moving towards the door. Orianne bit her lips and in when he was halfway to the door, she dropped all her bobbins and pins, letting them roll away across the floor, and leapt for his arm in a suddenly desperate clutch. An idea had taken shape in her head and she longed to see if it was possible. Athos looked down at her in shock and annoyance; who was this woman to think that this was appropriate?

“Monsieur Athos, I must ask you an important question,” she began. When he did not interrupt her or continuing leaving, she was emboldened. “Do you know how to read?”

The question astonished him; it was wholly unexpected. He struggled for a response briefly and she watched his face with such hope in her pale eyes that it stalled him further.

“Yes, of course,” he said, finally regaining his voice and finding it to sound confused and slightly curious, “Why?”

“I was wondering if you could...” she paused, attacking her lips again with her teeth.

“Stop that,” he said firmly, “You’ll hurt yourself.” He surprised himself at his own caring. He had only met this girl once in passing and only twice properly, including now.

“Could you teach me how to read?” she blurted out in a rush, the words slamming together in an incomprehensible jumble of accented French. Athos stared at her blankly, trying to decipher what she’d asked and failing. When he asked her to repeat it, she looked down at her feet, incredibly apologetic and shamefaced, and spoke in a slow, clear voice. She wanted him to teach her how to read.

 _How the hell am I supposed to do that?_ His mind demanded. _This is something Aramis is more capable of than I!_ But somehow, despite his thoughts, he found himself agreeing to teach her and she was smiling so brightly and in her cheer, she tripped yet again, fell against a small spindly table, and a pot of red dye struck him full in the chest just below his chin. He stood stunned as the ruby liquid gushed down over and inside his doublet, staining the shirtfront into a bright shade. The pot clattered on the floor and Orianne looked up at him, horrified into silence. They stayed this way for several long minutes before she scrambled to her feet blathering apologies, almost in tears.

“Monsieur Athos, please—” she offered him a cloth to wipe off some of the dye and he snatched it from her, fuming silently. She flinched away from him and went over to the window across the room, ensuring she would be out of his way. He growled a little and frowned over at her but she didn’t notice. She was an unfortunately tall woman and the wooden shoes she was wearing only added more height to her, problematic when added to her evident clumsiness. Her mousey-coloured hair hung freely to midway down her back with no attempt at curls or any other fashions of the day but it was oddly clean. She was, also, of a stouter figure than Milady, showing she was not often walking in the streets but was well-fed given the family’s circumstances.

The dye was drying to him quickly and beginning to itch. His doublet front was a little stiff and quite resembled his nerves at this moment. He needed a drink. Perhaps now was the time to truly leave? He approached her but made sure to stay a good arm’s length away from her in case there were any more dyes around that she could accidently throw at him.

“I will come back to start teaching you, Mademoiselle,” he said lowly, “Is there anything you want me to pass on to your brother?”

When she looked at him, Athos had to blink back his curiosity. Her expression had changed to one of utter hopelessness and defeat. Orianne appeared as if she had aged dramatically in a matter of moments.

“Please tell him that I miss him and I hope he is well,” she said quietly, avoiding Athos’ eyes, “And I hope the rest of your day is better than it has been, Monsieur.”

Athos nodded and shortly left thereafter. Orianne watched the street below to see Athos walking to the right. She turned from the window and wiped away a tear that gathered in her eye. _Why should he want to come back? I have made such a mess of things again!_ She took several deep breaths to stop the tears and noticed that Athos had left his hat behind and she smiled.

He would have to come back now if he wanted his hat back and she could properly offer him an apology, maybe even a way to fix the damage she had wrought, and then, perhaps, he would remain her friend.


	10. The Enemy, the Spy, and the Mob

Buckingham sat at his table in the cabin, peering at the tiny scroll between his fingers with a half smirk brushing across his face. The message was from Richelieu, of all people, and it was very short. But he was able to derive from its well-chosen words that the Cardinal was looking for a truce to protect himself from the Duke’s efforts against the King and against France. Buckingham hummed to himself as he pulled a piece of parchment towards him.

He phrased his words carefully, neither giving his full acceptance of the truce nor denying the offer. If Richelieu too was held in his power then Buckingham would have free reign to seek his revenge on Athos and attack France in the name of war and the feared Statesman could do nothing against him. He folded his reply, heated his sealing wax, dropped a dollop on the fold, and finally pressed his signet ring hard into the hot wax. His coat-of-arms showed itself back to him when he lifted the ring away.

His captain came in, saluted and bowed and opened his mouth to speak but Buckingham cut him off.

“Land the ship before the nearest gate into Paris and inform Milady to prepare for her departure.”

“Yes Milord.” The soldier bowed again and left to spread the orders amongst the men. Buckingham chuckled to himself and tapped the completed letter against his arm. He hoped that when the gate was opened that someone would manage to get by. He would like a chance to demonstrate that he does not go against his word once it has been made. 

***

The ship lowered its belly and several soldiers leapt from the deck, dangling on the guide lines until their feet touched the ground and away they ran to secure them to stout trees or iron pegs they sunk into the soft dirt. The stacked sails on either side of the vessel creaked with the wind and the flapping of sailcloth was all they could hear for a moment until the sounds of the land-bound army stationed nearby reached their ears. Milady looked out over the rolling terrain and spotted some tendrils of smoke coming from where soldiers were camping, waiting for orders beyond that of fetching supplies for the floating crafts from the fields surrounded the ancient city of Paris.

Milady was awaiting Buckingham, whom had wanted to see her off in the carriage that had been procured for her, though where it had been taken from, she did not know. She brushed her hand idly over a green and gold fabric fold of her skirt and adjusted a couple of pins that held her hat in place on her freshly curled head. Buckingham had had an adequate seamstress brought in order that she would have a sufficient new wardrobe and although the girl had been brought aboard for a week and quaking with terror; she had done her job well when left alone after taking the necessary measurements and being brought her materials from the city.

“Ah, there you are my dear,” said a smooth voice behind her. She turned to see Buckingham approaching her in his splendor, dressed from head to toe in a suit of deep, bloody red trimmed with gold and a lace collar bound tightly around his throat. She offered a handsome smile and held out her hand for him to kiss in greeting, which he did immediately.

“You are looking quite radiant today, Milady,” said Buckingham suavely, his lips turning up in a half-smirk. “I suppose you are wondering why we have landed?”

She would never admit to being curious. Besides, when one plays with the powers of two kingdoms, one learns to always be aware of everything. She already knew of the Cardinal’s truce by applying her unique attentions to the man whom had brought Buckingham the missive, but she was unaware if the Duke had accepted the truce.

“I hope you will tell me,” she said, “because I want to help in any way I can.”

“Oh you certainly can help now, my dear. I want you to act as my emissary, in secret of course, and deliver this letter to the Cardinal.”

“But His Majesty has seen me before as your emissary,” Milady pouted. “What am I to do if he recognises me?”

“That fool would not remember what shoes he was wearing, let alone a simple emissary; even if you are particularly worth remembering.”

“Yet, there is a chance he could remember me,” she muttered. Buckingham shook his head.

“Then see the Cardinal at his own residence instead of his office in the Louvre,” said Buckingham, slightly irritably. “Do not forget your main duty: find Athos.”

Milady gave a small sigh, took the folded and sealed letter from the English Duke, and tucked it into her bodice before she turned to head towards the gangplank leading off the ship, Buckingham following behind her.

The carriage was waiting there decorated in red and gold and looking very conspicuous. Although the lack of subtlety made Milady want to roll her eyes at the ‘operation’ she restrained herself and instead thought of how nice it would be to drive on the ground instead of way above it. It had been some time since she had been able to walk anywhere and she found it a pleasant change.

 _But now is not the time for this,_ she thought, _because I am on a mission and the offer proves to have better results than any of Richelieu’s protection._

She climbed into the carriage, picking up her skirts so as not to trip, and once she was seated the horses were whipped into movement and the carriage rolled off towards the nearest entrance into the city to wait for an anchor to be lifted and allow them passage. Standing on the outside of the carriage were four English soldiers disguised in the livery of footmen.  

***

Within the walls of Paris, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were exiting a tavern after staving off their hunger and thirst and were in high spirits (or at least as high spirits as Athos could appear to be.) They had thrown opinions around about the still increased patrols that lacked any action (Porthos very much against them as they stole many a good night’s sleep from him) and about when Buckingham would finally make any move (with Athos thinking sooner rather than later as Buckingham had never been a very patient person.) D’Artagnan was not with them as he was taking the rare time off to visit Constance at the Louvre instead of sleeping the entire day away; he had already dozed through the morning.

The streets were busy with people and it appeared that the Parisians had returned to their normal routines without all the scurrying about in fear and the panicked fights for food in the markets. The city was well supplied for now but none wished to consider what would happen when those stocks ran out.

The three musketeers passed through a market square that had gathered a silent crowd in the middle, leaving the vendors quite put-off around the edges, and they stopped for a moment to see what drew the peoples’ attention so thoroughly, hearing only a keening voice coming from within the mass. Porthos pushed his way through the wall of people, Athos and Aramis close behind, until they were able to see the scruffy, unkempt man standing in the middle of the crowd. Athos’ face began to darken as they listened to the man call out to the people to defy the orders of the King & the soldiers and go out themselves to get the food they would need rather than rely on others.

“If we continue listening to the King and his court, which have more than any of us could dream, then we will all starve! We must take action. We must get the food we need to survive for our children, our wives, and ourselves!”

“If this madman continues, he’ll incite a panic,” said Aramis with a frown. Porthos made to move forward but Athos grasped at his upper arm to halt him in his tracks.

“Athos, what are you doing?” Porthos demanded, trying to pull away.

“If you go after him in such a way then the people will truly turn against all the soldiers and the last thing any of us need in the wrath of the Parisians keeping us from our duty.” Athos explained lowly, looking around to make sure none were listening to him.

The people around them were growing restless and their expressions were a mixture of nervousness, determination, and anger. Their voices began to rise in assent with the unkempt man.

“To the fields! We must have food! Let us out!” the people cried.

Their exuberance and manner drew in others that were entering the square late or simply passing through and Athos, Porthos, and Aramis soon found themselves being swept along with the mob, trapped between men and women as they all were led like sheep towards the nearest outer wall, the yells and chants ringing in their ears.

As the mob rounded a corner and faced a gate, they found that many soldiers had heard the yelling, the catcalls, the threats, and the cheers, and were now lined up along the wall top and the street below to block the path. But the people would not be deterred and, after a brief moment of silence, a roar resounded and the people rushed forth. The soldiers were surprised and the ones in the street found themselves swarmed. Athos was shuffled into the middle of the fray and seeing a burly young man slamming a Guardsman’s head into the stones; he leapt forward to throw the peasant off and helped the guard back to his now unsteady feet. Athos could hear Porthos bellowing somewhere nearby but he could find no sign of Aramis. Worrying for the mostly gentle man, Athos pushed men and women and soldiers hither and thither in search of black-haired man with no success. He did manage to reach Porthos though, who was holding two men by the back of their collars and promptly dropped them upon sighting Athos.

“Have you seen Aramis in this mess?” Athos demanded. Porthos shook his head.

“He was next to me until these fools charged and then I didn’t see him.”

But Athos and Porthos needn’t have worried, for Aramis was sound despite being pressed into an alley that had no other exit besides the way he’d come through. The roars grew more intense as the gates were suddenly opened wide and the soldiers fought back harder to stop the people from flooding out. A pair of grey horses pulling a red carriage picked its way through the mess, able to get far enough for a couple of the footmen to hop down and shut the gates once more. The women in the crowd gave anguished, defeated cries and the men became fiercer. They abandoned their charge on the street soldiers and instead took to the stairs that led up to the wall top. It was utter chaos. What was left behind was several unconscious men, a couple of dead bodies, and a woman who looked like she had been trampled by her fellows in their haste.

Aramis looked at all this in disgust. He lifted his eyes away from the sight briefly as he took hold of the cross about his neck in his hand and before he began to whisper the Last Rites, his eyes flicked to the window of the carriage as it passed and they became as round as gold coins. _No, it cannot be!_

He tried to get closer but now that the street was mostly cleared, the carriage rolled away faster, the horses spurred by the driver and the footmen swaying on their posts as they held fast to the corners. Aramis forgot about the Last Rites and stared at the vehicle, or where it had been, until suddenly Athos and Porthos were upon him. Porthos caught him in a strong, one-armed embrace, quite happy to see that he was unharmed. Athos asked him if he was alright as he looked like he had seen a ghost. Aramis did not know how to respond to the inquiry as he was not quite sure what he had seen.

“It’s nothing,” he said over the noise on the ramparts above them. “I thought I saw someone I knew.”

Porthos pulled Athos and Aramis forward a few paces as a soldier suddenly fell from above where they had been standing. The two older musketeers quickly forgot their inquiries and the three drew their swords and took to the stairs in order to try and help their fellows stop the frenzied crowd.


	11. Lies & Lessons

 “How did you get in here?”

“Through the window, Your Eminence. You really should have your men trained to look to the sky sometime instead of only at street level.”

Milady was perched on the edge of Richelieu’s desk, plucking her gloves off one finger at a time, her hat plumed hat pinned at a jaunty angle on top of her copper curls. Richelieu gave her a brutal, icy stare in a fierce expression of his displeasure.

“I would wonder why you came back after your failure in the affair of the diamond studs but your boldness does not surprise me.” Milady set her removed gloves on the desk and reached down the front of her dress to pull forth the sealed letter, dropping that on the wooden surface with little care.

“It is not my fault that Athos holds petty grudges so dear to his heart, if he still has one that is,” said Milady, picking up one of the Cardinal’s quills in her right hand and playing with the plume with her left.

“I do wonder, however,” began Richelieu, walking about the room and circling closer towards the desk, “whether you betrayed me despite my warnings to you.”

Milady looked at him in feigned shock, green eyes innocently bright.

“Your Eminence, what you are you accusing me off?! I, betray you, the most powerful man in France? The man who truly deserves the crown? What have I to gain from such an act?”

“Save your flattery for Buckingham, if you have had any contact with him.” He stood before her, his chair behind him, and had yet to look down.

“I know that Your Eminence has issued some sort of agreement with Buckingham and I have put his response there by your fingers,” said Milady, standing and taking two steps away.

Richelieu sat in the chair but did not open the letter, choosing instead to steeple his fingers and peer at the young woman over them.

“I have every reason to believe that you handed the diamonds over to those musketeers, along with the _carte blanche_ that I wrote for you,” stated Richelieu coldly.

“For once, you are only half-right,” said Milady in a honeyed voice. “Athos took the diamonds off me by force; I had little say in the matter. When there is a pistol pointed at one’s head and I have no weapon, it is hard not to comply with him. It is true that I also gave them the _carte blanche_ , but I had no say in that either, and once they had everything they could want, Athos pushed me from the machine and into the Channel.”

Richelieu listened with a closed, unchanging expression; his feeling was so hidden from Milady that she could only hope that he believed her. Suddenly, there was a knock on the office door and a young man entered, saluting smartly.

“Your Eminence, there has been activity in a northern quarter. A riot seems to have broken out; several men were beaten to a pulp,” when the man stopped, Richelieu waved him to go on. “They were trying to escape the city in a mass frenzy while one of the machines lifted their anchor.”

“But has it been quelled?”

“Yes it has, Monseigneur. The Gardes sent to us for additional help and the Inseparables were in the area and lent us their aid as well.”

Richelieu pinched the bridge of nose, annoyance building at the group of musketeers that went under that particular name.

“Very well, de Cavoie. You are dismissed. Continue your duties.”

“What ever happened to Rochefort?” asked Milady curiously, setting down the pen she had been playing with. Richelieu eyed her for a moment to see if her question was an honest one of not knowing or simply for appearance sake to go with her story before he answered.

“Rochefort was killed by D’Artagnan on the roof of the Notre Dame, Milady. He managed to recover the diamonds after you but he too failed to bring them to me.”

“Well, that pretty boy certainly is a demon, is he not?”

“He and those blasted three as well,” said Richelieu, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Perhaps, I may have use of you still, if you are not so wholly interested in being Buckingham’s emissary.”

“What could you need me for, Your Eminence?” she asked coyly, taking her gloves and holding them in her lap.

“You, of all people, should want revenge on Athos for what he did, correct?” asked the Cardinal, watching her closely.

Milady pulled her gloves back on gently so as not to reveal the whirring that was occurring in her brain. If she tried in any way to avoid the idea that Richelieu put forth, he would know that her story was mostly a falsehood. But as it was not only Richelieu but Buckingham too who had an interest in the elite musketeer, she could most likely be rewarded twice for her efforts. Athos, most unfortunately, would have to suffer the consequences but one must do what they had to in order to survive.

“Revenge does sound like quite the proper business,” said Milady slowly, “Have you any ideas how I may go about that?”

“I have several but I suggest you find your own method. I do, however, want you to keep an eye on Buckingham for me, since I shall assume he is the one who found you in the Channel on his way over to France?” When she had assented, Richelieu continued.

“I hope that you will be more careful. If Athos should discover you and your personal plot against him, I shall not help you. Mistakes will not be forgiven this time.” With those words, in that tone, he had dismissed her. She went to the door and as she did, she heard the sound of the letter being opened and as she was about to close the door behind her, Milady heard him give a whispered swear at the contents. She smirked to herself and marched off in what only could be considered a strut through the halls and stairs and back outside to her carriage.

***

The table had been cleared and the sunlight poured in through the shutters, wide open despite Orianne’s reluctance. But Athos assured that he would be gone long before either of her parents returned and she could closet herself in the darkness again. Now, the musketeer had taken up a quill he had borrowed from Aramis and began to write out the alphabet on the parchment before him, printing in large, careful strokes.

“Monsieur Athos, how does your drawing help me learn to read?” Orianne asked with nervous skepticism as she peered at the growing list. He made a gruff sound but did not answer and she backed away, chewing her bottom lip fretfully. She glanced towards the closed door of her small room, questioning to herself if Athos would like what she’d done to his hat. She had not seen the man in three days and had been afraid she had put him off their friendship entirely with her clumsiness.

But he had arrived today with a bundle of parchment, ink, quill, and one book and she extra careful when she put away her dyes (although it helped that Athos stayed well out of her way; across the room in fact. Athos stood tall once he’d finished writing and leaned back to stretch with a small growl; he was getting a bit old now, wasn’t he?

“Come girl, sit down,” he said, pulling out one of the chairs and setting it down with a thump. Orianne approached and sat slowly, watching him warily. His eyes were shadowed; a deep purple seemed painted just under them. His hair was a bit scraggly, a couple of strands falling out of its rough tie. Athos appeared rumpled and exhausted and looked easy to annoy on this day. She looked down to the paper when his eye met hers.

She did not see the quick frown that came across his face as he examined her. After all, he was to be making sure she was well, was he not? That was what he had sworn to do. Orianne’s cheeks had grown a little hollow and her eyes seemed to have sunk slightly and thus, there was a tinge of grey to the skin around the orbs. She had tugged her sleeve down over her wrists when he had arrived (it had not escaped his notice) but he had already taken note of the green bruises that adorned them. There was little he could do, however, and now he focused on teaching, something he really knew little about.

“Do you know any letters at all?” he asked her hopefully, thinking that perhaps Roderic had been bold enough to teach her under their parents’ noses. She nodded, eager to please.

“I know ‘O’ and ‘R’ and ‘I’ and ‘A’ and ‘N’ and ‘E’,” she chirped, “Roderic said those were the things that made my name!”

“That’s right but they’re not ‘things’, girl, but letters,” Athos said, standing behind her and reaching over her shoulder to guide her sight with his finger as he pointed to letters. He started at ‘A’ and she parroted them back to him as he said each one.

He pulled another piece of parchment, filled the quill again, and leaned forward to write out his own name. His arms were passed around her, one hand holding the paper, and the other the pen. Her hair was tickling his cheek and he was deluged in the smells of candle wax and a mixture of herbs. His hand shook slightly and he growled a little to quell a sudden urge he had to bury his nose in her hair and drink more of that scent. Despite his distrust of women, he was still human, still a man, and every man had urges. It had been more than a year since he’d been this close to a woman. He felt her tense; she’d heard his growl. He placed a hand on her shoulder to soothe her.

“I apologize; something was caught in my throat. Now, do you see anything that looks the same in these names?” Orianne furrowed her brow, pulled the parchment closer, and leaned forward over it.

“That’s an ‘A’?” she asked, directing him to the pointed letter at the beginning of his name. Athos nodded.

“And that is an ‘O’!” she declared proudly, pointing out the letter. Athos’ lips turned up in a quick smile.

“Right again. I’ll teach you the others.” So he did. She now knew ‘H’ and ‘T’ and ‘S’ and the sounds they made (or didn’t make) in French.

“But, what is it?” she asked afterwards. “What does it make?” He blinked at her, having not realised that she did not know the context of the word.

“It makes a name. You know the sounds; why not try and read it? Combine the sounds into a string of them.”

“At...Os...,” she said slowly, separating the sounds. She repeated them a few more times but she was rapidly becoming disheartened when nothing came to mind. Athos pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. _This is more difficult than I expected_.

“Who am I, girl?” he asked suddenly, cutting off the repeated noises. She jumped in her seat and thus fell backwards. Athos slapped his palm to his forehead then reached down to haul her back up on her feet and pulled her back to the table. He jabbed at the paper with his finger.

“This is your name, Orianne. This is you,” he said, “and this is my name. This is me!” Orianne nodded fearfully. When he released her upper arm where he had pulled her, an astonishing amount of guilt swept over him when he saw her rubbing the spot.

“Monsieur, you look very tired,” she whispered, trembling from head to foot. He hadn’t meant to scare her. She would not come within an arms-length of him.

“You could sleep in there,” she said, pointing to a door behind him. “That is, if you wanted to. I can wake you so you can leave before my parents come back.”

He sighed and shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. They got tangled and some strands came off when he got free. “That would be a good idea.”

Orianne touched his arm with her fingers to guide him towards the room and she pushed open the door. Athos blinked at the dark, tiny dimensions. A short, hard-looking bed was in the corner and it took up most of the room. In fact, with both of them standing in the room, there was little space to move about between the bed and a wardrobe. When she turned to look up at him (even though there was not that big of a stretch between their eyes), he could almost fell her chest rising and falling against him with every breath she took. Her icy blue eyes were feathered with long, black lashes but they lacked a sparkle of one who was happy.

“I know my bed is probably not as comfortable as your own but I hope it will suit you,” she muttered, looking down between them at his boots. Athos frowned and nudged her chin back up lightly with his forefinger.

“It will be fine,” he said. She brushed past him as she left and he sat on the wooden frame. The hay under the sheet was thin and prickly but he was not about to pass up a chance at rest. The door closed, he set his feet over the baseboard (for the bed was too short for him) and lay his head on the pillow. His senses were deluged once more in her scent of wax and herbs and it lulled him to sleep.

He did not know how long he slept. All he remembered was Orianne prodding him awake, her expression fretful as if she too had lost track of time, and he was practically pushed out the door. She gave him his hat, which he had forgotten about until that moment, and bid him goodbye with wishes of a longer and better sleep. Athos looked at his hat. It looked different; something was out of place.

 _There is lace on my hat_ , he realised. It was tasteful, however; a simple patterned band dyed such a dark blue that it was basically black. His face broke into a small smile. It was his first gift in a long time.

 _Perhaps, I should come back tomorrow_ , he thought, turning towards his own home, eager for some wine and his own bed.  


	12. Rites & Dice

The sun was setting on Paris and the musketeers’ lodging on Pont Notre Dame was full of activity. Porthos’ laugh was boisterous, aided by the wine he had consumed thus far. Aramis was chuckling lightly as well, a pen in one hand and a book in front him, wet ink still shimmering on the page. Athos sat in his usual place by the door to his room, his back against the wall, a half full cup of wine in his hand. Roderic sat stiff and awkward next to D’Artagnan, his hands wringing in his lap. Roderic had been invited for dinner but had really only came for his weekly visit to inquire about Orianne’s well-being. It was Porthos who had insisted that he stay and eat and stop worrying so much.

“Come now, Roderic! There’s no need to look as if someone stuck a sword up your—” began Porthos when Aramis cut him off before he could finish.

“There’s no need for that Porthos. The young man barely knows us and you make quite horrible company when you really try.”

Porthos glared with a promise of retribution towards the younger, black-haired, and smirking man. Roderic watched the exchange with a mixture of fascination and nervousness. He may be just beyond his second decade but he was not used to easy banter between friends when his own parents had never had such friendly attitudes towards each other.

“Your sister is well, Roderic,” said Athos, tipping his head towards the young man in question, “I am a man of my word.”

“I was never in any doubt of your gentlemanly honour, Monsieur Athos,” replied Roderic indignantly and, if it was possible, sat up straighter.

“At ease, lad! Why so formal with friends?” demanded Porthos, clapping him on the shoulder hard and shaking him from head to toe with the blow. He had stood to retrieve their remaining cheese that had been wrapped in parchment and sat on a shelf behind Roderic.

“I have a duty to respect my elders so long as I am respected in turn,” stated Roderic firmly. Porthos lifted a brow at Aramis and Athos with a smirk. D’Artagnan smiled into his whole cup, shoulders shivering from his quelled laughter.

“Your elders, you say? You do realise Aramis is not much older than yourself? And how old do you assume us to be?” asked Porthos, setting the cheese down on the table but staying standing behind Roderic. Roderic tensed, untangled his wringing hands and set them on his knees, gripping the caps lightly.

“I assume you to be older than he, Monsieur Porthos,” said Roderic. He expected a swift, sudden blow to the back of the head; he did not expect to have his head yanked up in a lock and Porthos’ knuckles rubbing madly into his dark hair while the giant of a man, with his sole earring and soft fuzz of hair, bellowed with more laughter; a jollier man in the company of friends, and drunk at that, was hard to find.

“Porthos, let him go!” yelled Aramis suddenly, throwing down his book and pen. “The young man is almost purple!” Somehow, the solemn musketeer had remained oblivious of the noise and had continued his writings, indicating such riotousness was common behaviour.

Porthos released Roderic, whose hair was tangled together with quite the resemblance of a bird’s nest. D’Artagnan had given up on restraining himself further and was leaning back in his chair, laughing along with Porthos. Even Athos cracked a smile in the moment but he quickly hid it in his wine.

“Perhaps we should take Roderic out and show him what Paris has to offer?” said Porthos, looking to Aramis hopefully, knowing that Athos would not join them and D’Artagnan, being already quite attached to his lady at the palace, would not either. Roderic became nervous again and he tried to fix his scraggly mess of hair into some order, pulling his fingers through the strands by his ears repeatedly. Aramis hummed and hawed a moment of two before shrugging and standing.  

“That is not a bad idea Porthos. I could do with a bit of fun,” said Aramis, turning towards the stairs to head to his room, “Allow me to dress more appropriately and we will leave.”

“Fine, go make yourself pretty,” Porthos said, waving him away, “At least now we won’t have to wait for Planchet to get back with the wine!” Athos had sent the heavy-set servant off a short while ago to procure more wine for them, having drunk their remainder of their recent batch on this evening.

Aramis came back downstairs. His hair was slicked back with pomade that suffused the room with a rose scent and he’d put back on his fitted black doublet that he’d worn through the day. Athos raised his brow but said nothing at his efforts. Roderic’s face twisted into a wary expression as Porthos slipped a hand under his arm and hoisted him from his seat and on his feet.

“Come on, boy. We’re going to show you the sort of fun you can have in Paris!” proclaimed Porthos, dragging the Teutonic man towards the door. Aramis stopped and looked at D’Artagnan, whose chuckles had finally died down and who was pulling his doublet off the back of his chair.

“Are you coming too D’Artagnan?” The young Gascon shook his head.

“No, I’m heading to the Louvre. Constance is expecting me.” Aramis nodded and wished him well as he hurried down the stairs to catch up with Porthos and Roderic. D’Artagnan glanced at Athos as he tied his doublet; the older man was still sitting quietly watching but he did not seem to be seeing anything.

“Athos, are you alright?” Athos blinked and looked at D’Artagnan for a moment in silence before giving a low chuckle.

“I’m fine boy. You’d better go. To me, women are a lot more trouble than they’re worth but they can give you a lot of trouble for being late.” But his voice lacked the usual conviction he held with this view. D’Artagnan frowned and tilted his head.

“You’re certain?” Now Athos frowned back.

“Go D’Artagnan. You have someone to meet, remember?” D’Artagnan nodded and placed his hat on dark hair.

“Have a good night then Athos.” Athos listened until the boy’s steps couldn’t be heard after closing the door. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and turning his empty cup in his fingers. He glanced in his room at his hat that he’d dropped on the bed then looked away quickly as if embarrassed. He felt off; something was different. He needed to go out, toss some dice, drink with some fellow musketeers and, most of all, not think, and that is exactly what he did. This time, he did not forget his hat but made a point of putting it on before leaving. He left the door unlocked for Planchet’s sake, but there was little concern about robbery as people along this street knew that this was where musketeers lived and no one dared bother them (except, of course, their landlord.)

***

Roderic was unable to escape his guides; he was trapped between them and because of this, they almost took up the width of the street. Porthos was almost dragging him farther and farther from the Pont Notre Dame and towards the area of the Louvre before veering off into a narrow alley and out again into another street. Normally, Roderic did not go out after dark unless on patrols and thus he recognised little. Everything looked so different under the moonlight and airships’ shadows. One such ship floated overhead and Porthos lifted his hand in a rude gesture to it.

“Porthos,” Aramis hissed, “Don’t incite them! Are you trying to get Paris burned?”

“As if they could see me from way up there,” Porthos scoffed with a slight slur. Aramis shook his head but said nothing more. Roderic, too, said nothing.

They arrived before what seemed to be a thriving, lively establishment. Sounds of men making merry and the laughter of women came from the open windows. Some of the upper windows were open to the summer air as well and odd sounds came from there, even something that sounded almost like a cry of pain. Roderic regarded the building with a wary eye and expression and was quite prepared to pass it by when Porthos jerked his arm and lead him right to the door, Aramis close behind.

“Welcome to _Les Femmes de Magdalène_ ,” said Porthos with a wide smirk.

Roderic whipped around to look at Porthos in horrified shock then tried to bolt past him only to be grabbed under the arm again.

“Monsieur, I cannot go in there. It is not the place for a good Catholic!” he exclaimed, twisting in the giant’s grasp.

“For a good table, quality wine and beautiful women, there are no faith differences,” Porthos said, laughing as he picked up Roderic by the collar and reduced to naught all his efforts to run off in the opposite direction. “Come now, lad, I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun! You need to grow up a little and try new things.”

"This is not something I would consider worth trying!" Roderic snarled as he scratched at Porthos' hands desperately. "I am a loyal Catholic and I will NOT enter this place of sin!"

Aramis shook his head, laughing lightly. "Roderic, Porthos is right. Every gentleman and soldier needs time to have a little fun."

"How can you say such things, DO such things when you bear the sign of God around your neck?" Roderic demanded of Aramis, his eyes practically popping from his head.

Aramis’ eyes narrowed into a sharp glare and he said nothing for some time. Porthos looked back and forth between the pair, looking awkward in the bitter silence and still holding onto Roderic.

“Porthos, let him go,” said Aramis coldly, “He is neither worth our time nor the time of the women of this establishment.”

Porthos set Roderic down on his feet and the young German brushed himself clean, straightening his falling lace collar meticulously. He spun on his heel sharply and began to march away, his posture tense with indignation, but he stopped when he heard Aramis speak.

“Besides, the boy is too scared to go in.” Aramis’ voice was dripping with spite. Roderic froze then slowly looked back over his shoulder, his face like a stone mask. He turned back and walked towards them, shoved Aramis aside, and immediately entered the door to the brothel.

Porthos stared from the door that had remained ajar to Aramis and back at the door once more, his face the picture of shock. He shook his head and smirked at his friend, who stood there looking smug, holding one hand up in the air in front of him and sitting the other on his hip.

“I’ve noticed that for sanguine characters such as that of our young friend in there, and like our well-known gascon, reverse psychology is often the best way to encourage them to act according to our wishes…”

“You are incorrigible, Aramis,” chuckled the giant as he tapped the musketeer priest’s shoulder with his hand, nearly toppling him. “But let’s go inside. The lad is capable of turning from stripling to seducer in a manner of minutes, and leaving us no women at all!”

But as they entered, they were forced to halt or walk right into Roderic as he had stopped just a bit beyond the door, his hand holding the crucifix hanging from his neck in a white knuckled grip, his arm giving little twitches from the effort. The interior was lit with by an iron chandelier above their heads, the candlelight flickering on the walls and bodies and casting shadows everywhere and melding them into grotesque shapes. But the people here, the men with their opened doublets, the women balanced in their laps or seated at their hips or serving them wine and food, hardly cared about or noticed the dark ambiance of the brothel. Tables and benches and chairs were placed in rough groupings all about and it was as if one walked a maze weaving through to find a table. A set of stairs on the right side led up to rooms where the women provided the services they had been paid for, though Roderic had no notion of what those services might be, having only scant details from amongst his comrades.

A woman with a tight corset, a low cut shirt, and large skirts brushed past them carrying a few tankards and she flashed a wink with her pretty eyes at Roderic before moving on to serve. The young man's ears turned a shocking red through his dark hair and he lowered his eyes shyly. Aramis gripped him about the shoulders and directed him to a table, their usual table, and forced him to sit on a bench.

"Messieurs Aramis and Porthos!" A voice called suddenly from their left. "We were all wondering when you would return. How the girls missed you fine gentlemen!" An older woman with wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth and the demeanour of a general came upon them, dressed as scantily as the serving wench from prior. Roderic averted his attention to the swirls in the wooden tabletop while Porthos greeted the owner before them with a sharp tug into his lap and noisy kiss on the mouth.

"Monsieur Porthos, please!" she exclaimed in false modesty; her eyes glittered with the pleasure of his attentions. "Do be kind and introduce me to your friend!"

It took a moment for Porthos, who was rather absorbed in the contemplation of her breasts, which he fondled freely with his hands, to realise what she had just said.

“Oh right! Mariette, this is Roderic. Our young friend has been recently appointed into the guards of _Monsieur des Essarts_ , and we thought it would do him some good to be in the company of fine young ladies for a while…”

“Oh, you are such a dear, Monsieur,” she said, tickling the underside of Porthos’ chin with a finger. She looked at Roderic with an appraising stare and the young man shifted uncomfortably. Mariette’s smile grew wide with realisation.

“Monsieur, are you perhaps unfamiliar with the pleasures of women?” she asked, leaning towards him and displaying her décolletage to his gaze. Roderic’s eyes were round as coins and like those of a frightened deer. Some wine was brought; he grabbed a tankard and gulped down half of it without pause, eager to keep his hands occupied. When he lowered the drink, some more women had gathered around the table and he jumped when one stroked along his face to turn his eyes to her. She was a pretty young thing, about his age, with tumbling blonde curls and brown, doe-like eyes.

“Come with me Monsieur. My friends and I shall introduce you to the best way to relax after a long day.” She took his hands, pulled him to his feet, and began to lead him towards the stairs.

Aramis grinned as Roderic allowed the girl to lead him away, although he looked at least two or three times behind his shoulder at his two friends with the air of a lamb who was being brought to the butcher. The musketeers waved at him encouragingly until they lost sight of him at the top of the stairs, and Porthos resumed his cosseting of the tavern owner, while two other girls, a redhead and a brunette, sat around Aramis and competed for his attentions as he finished writing up something in a notebook he always had on him.

Pulling away from Mariette's neck briefly, Porthos snorted at Aramis in distaste.

"Really, Aramis, you're choosing to write instead of spending time with these lovely ladies? I thought you had better taste!"

Said musketeer finished off his writing as if he had heard nothing of his friend’s admonishments. He shut the small book tightly after allowing it to dry and stretched his arms on either side of the two girls before bringing them both closer to him in one single gesture. They giggled as he flashed them his seductive smile and started nibbling along the redhead’s jaw line, to her great delight.

***

Like the brothel, the tavern was occupied with a manner of people active in their pursuits, although those were instead drinking and gambling and sometimes flirting with the servers. Athos was definitely among those drinking, sometimes drifting over to the table to gamble, but he most certainly did not flirt with the women. It was not his way. Besides, he was there to try and forget about the women and the infinite complications they inflicted on the lives of men. The room was warm, warmer than outside due to the close proximity of bodies and the smell of wax, wine, and sweat permeated the air.

In the corner was a long table that was surrounded by men playing a game of dice (1). Athos was amongst them, actually participating, and oddly enough, he was winning a tidy sum of gold. The tips of his fingers were resting on the brim of his hat; the rest of said article was resting on the table close by. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers unconsciously as he tossed the dice. They clattered on the table and came up with an eight and there were a mix of cheers and groans; he’d won yet again.

“I’d like to know your seamstress,” said a musketeer that sat next to him, “She does good work.” He picked up Athos’ hat and ran a finger along the lace band.

“Perhaps she’d be willing to give me some luck as well, unless, of course, she’s not just your seamstress.”

Athos growled something unintelligible under his breath and snatched his hat away from his comrade with a glare. The soldiers of the first royal company knew better than to try and get on Athos’ bad side; this one was no different. He withdrew to his seat and pretended not to see as his quiet, brooding companion first placed his hat back where it was on the table then seemed to think better of it and placed it directly on his lap.

“Well, it looks like Athos has won tonight, gentlemen!” announced a burly musketeer somewhat like Porthos, as he threw the dice on the table and took his hat and doublet from his chair behind him. “It doesn’t happen often enough for us to begrudge him, but for my part, I must retire, for I have no money left!”

He winked at Athos and patted him on the shoulder, and got somewhat of a smile for an answer.

“A round for everyone,” he announced simply, to the general cheer of his companions,

“Hurray, Athos, there’s a good comrade,” the burly musketeer replied. “However, I must decline for myself; the wife is waiting for me at home, and I hate making her worry.”

"You bend so easily to your little woman, Gérard?" One of their fellows cackled drunkenly to the snickers of his friends but Gérard quirked a half-smile.

"But I get some decent benefits from bending to her, Monsieur, so it is worth my time." The tables thus turned on the heckler and he was laughed at in return.

Athos, meanwhile, felt his decent mood beginning to slip with such talk and he took another deep draught from his cup, holding it out to be refilled when the tavern keeper came around with a fresh bottle and took the money from Athos for the wine given to the others. Gérard departed and Athos watched him leave with a curiously thoughtful expression on his face, as if he was trying to grasp at something in his mind that was just beyond his reach.

**_(1) Today, we are looking at dice games and gambling in general, which were very popular in the seventeenth century and even long before then. There is a multitude of games that were already played, most of which were favoured indifferently by adults and children alike. Yes, back in the day, even children would gamble, and it was considered a healthy learning method. Lansquenet, biribi, and many other card games were appreciated, and we still find charm in them nowadays on long evenings. Did you know that the four suits used to be called swords, staves, cups and coins, instead of spades, clubs, hearts and diamonds?_ **


	13. Shaken Foundations & Blasted Walls

Rain lashed the windows in a sudden summer storm and Richelieu’s office in the Louvre was layered in shadows made by the flickering candles. The figurines set up around the map of Europe on the floor appeared slightly menacing in their stillness, banners frozen and caught in a non-existent wind, soldiers bearing down on one another’s borders with cavalry and infantry war ready and violent. His own secretary, Father Joseph, stood close to his desk, practically at his elbow, passing him each document silently. The quill scratched incessantly, sometimes pausing over documents to study them further before signing. Some documents he set in a separate pile away from those relating to State affairs once signed, ready to bring them with him back to the Palais Cardinal so as not to be found.

Suddenly, the door to the office opened and there was a click of heels as the King entered rapidly, dressed in a cheery blue patterned with gold and a wide-brimmed hat sat on his head spilling white ostrich plumes on one side. Behind him came the Queen and Treville and their faces were hard and blank as stone. Richelieu set his quill down and stood to bow low to Louis, surprised at the sudden visit. It was late in the evening; later than normal for any visits from the young King. The Cardinal suddenly noticed a large book tucked in Treville’s arm that he recognised; the finance records that the Queen had demanded and taken from him.

“Richelieu,” began Louis with slight trepidation, “I was wondering if you could clear something up for me with the records of Crown treasury. There are certain figures that seem abnormally large and are signed in your name.”

Here Louis paused to gesture to Treville for the book he held and the Lieutenant-Captain quickly flipped it open to where his finger had held a page and passed it to the monarch. Anne drew closer to Louis until she stood alongside him. Her hands were down at her sides pinching folds of her dress skirt between her thumb and forefinger, alternating between white and red as she gripped and released. Richelieu swallowed and made his face as still as possible whilst his pulse began to race. He was the Prime Minister of France; he was doing what was best for the kingdom and the best was that he governed and that this child pretending to be a man be kept ignorant and focused wholly on his pleasurable pursuits. Treville smirked at Richelieu briefly when Louis’s back was turned then bit at his lip to hide it but the Cardinal had already seen; his eyes were burning with promise of revenge on the musketeer leader. Louis came forward, spun the book around in his palm so that the printed figures faced the right way up so Richelieu could read them, and set it before him on the desk. Richelieu did not sit but bent his head to examine the numbers. His long fingers twitched and he gripped the edge of his desk to still them.

“This one here,” Louis pointed at four figure number near the top of the page, “is quite high. What might it be for?”

Richelieu licked at his lips and said, “That is for the repairs to Notre Dame after what occurred between Rochefort and your Musketeers.”

Louis nodded in understanding and gave an easy smile, assured, but the smile quickly dropped away as he turned back a page and pointed to yet another number. The figure was a little smaller but only just; Richelieu remembered that it was for the supplies of gunpowder, cannons, cannon balls, and the strange fire blowing machine on the airship. 

“And this one?” he asked hopefully, expecting another quick answer.

“That was for the supplies for your gift that Rochefort sabotaged,” said the Cardinal stiffly.

Louis looked to his Queen with a smile that she returned but weakly. Treville was starting to become anxious. _Does this man have an answer for everything?!_ The King slid his finger down the page and stopped mid-way, his face becoming serious.

“What can you tell me about this one Richelieu?” he asked quietly, looking the Cardinal straight in the eye. The man was quick to turn his gaze back to the book, staring at the figure that glared out at him in all its black glory. He could feel Treville’s eyes boring into the top of his head and could imagine the satisfied smirk crossing the soldier’s face; the Queen’s was probably not much better, if only more subtle.

“Your Majesty, that...” Richelieu began for a moment then paused. The silence stretched out while the storm crashed in the background. Louis’s cheeks stated to redden and his lips pinched together.

“I asked for an answer Richelieu,” said Louis with a slight stammer, “and I want it now. What was this figure for? Did you take money from the royal purse for your own use?”

Still Richelieu said nothing, standing upright and looking forward. Louis circled around in front of him and slammed the book down on the desk. His eyes were fiery with the feeling of betrayal.

“Answer me, Richelieu! What was that money for?” His voice became louder and louder. It seemed that he had found his kingly temper. Richelieu watched him with a cold stare and a soft smile that, to Louis, now looked as if it was mocking him.

“I do not recall, Your Majesty,” stated the Cardinal, holding his hands in front of him.  Louis made a disgusted sound and turned away, looking to Treville with a broken expression.

“Treville, you are to escort Richelieu back to the Palais Cardinal and he will be kept there until either he recalls what that money was for and tells us or we discover the result of this mystery ourselves,” ordered the King in a tight voice. “Be off with you.”

“Right this way, Your Eminence,” said Treville, swinging his arm in a wide gesture directing him towards the door. Richelieu folded his fingers together and walked out with his held high, the musketeer captain following. The Queen waited until the men were out of sight and earshot before she approached Louis, her face soft with apology.

“Milord, I hope you are not mad with me for bringing these issues to your attention,” she said gently, reaching forward to touch his arm with her finger tips. His arm was shaking with the feelings he was repressing to maintain a state of dignity, which was rapidly crumbling. He suddenly looked at Anne with a bleak, hopeless expression.

“Anne, I don’t know if I can do this without him,” he whispered. “I have done nothing for so long—”

“Enough, Louis,” said Anne firmly. “You will do this and you will not be alone. I am right here with you for each step.” She stretched up and kissed his cheek, stroking the other side of his face with her hand. He leaned into the touch with a sigh and lifted a hand to press hers warmly.

“We had better get started. There are many places to go and there is a lot to go through,” he said as he turned to the desk to begin sifting through papers. No one had noticed Father Joseph slip away with the remaining unsigned documents as well as a pile of papers that he tucked into his grey robe, those which he knew the Cardinal did not want to be found. He would deliver them to him by way of the secret passages that all grand buildings held. Sometimes the suspicions of kings laid the ground to ease the paths of later intrigues.

***

The rain had slowed but the clouds still covered the sky. The streets were dark and Porthos gave a loud sigh, looking back at his comrade for their patrol. The spurs on their boots clinked on the wet cobbles under their boots and their uniforms were cold with damp. A soft breeze blew from off the Seine and the other musketeer wrenched a handkerchief from his sleeve and shoved it into his face as he sneezed. His blond hair had been in curls but now that were slopped in a twist mess down his neck and his brown eyes were half closed in tiredness.

“Sick, Jacques?” asked Porthos, nudging him with an elbow and almost knocking over the aforementioned man. Jacques chuckled croakily and sniffed into the kerchief.

“A little, Porthos,” he said tiredly. “This rain will not help me. I’m frozen from the rain.” They continued on their way through the streets, the quiet punctuated by a loud sneeze from Jacques. He shook his head with a groan then suddenly stopped in the middle of the street. Porthos turned back to look at him confused.

“Jacques, what’s wrong?” he asked, pushing his hat brim up so he can see his comrade, who was looking up at the sky with a frown that wrinkled his brows.

“Porthos, do you hear whistling?” Porthos opened his mouth but before he could speak, the building next to them erupted in splinters and screams and Porthos charged forward to pull Jacques to the ground before his head was torn from his shoulders by the oncoming cannon ball. The pair lay with their chests pressed to the ground, covering their heads from the falling debris. When Porthos lifted his face from the stones, he rolled over to see a gaping hole torn through the upper floors of the house on his right and a collapsed pile of rubble on his left where a small home used to be.

“Sangdieu, what was that?” Jacques demanded; his arms trembling as he held himself up on his hands and knees. People began to fill the narrow street, some women started to scream.

“It was a cannon ball! Who the devil would shoot a cannon in the middle of the city?!”

Jacques looked up to the airships in wonder, as Porthos assessed the situation, and kept panicked bystanders at bay as he did so.

“Don’t waste your time looking up at them,” the larger musketeer growled, practically shoving a screaming woman in her husband’s arms, who rapidly took her away to safety. “The angle at which the ball entered shows that the shot was made from ground level.”

“Porthos that would mean that the English are not just above the city, but in it as well!” exclaimed Jacques. “We can’t stay here; we have to go see the Captain and inform him.”

After so little action during this siege beyond the fights in the markets when the ships first arrived and the rioting escape attempt the previous week, the idea of the English having infiltrated the city was a worrying thought.

“You’re right. Just let me verify something.”

Porthos ran around the rubble and disappeared behind the heap of stones and wood that had been the house not a minute earlier. He rummaged through, muttering quietly to himself as he did so, and Jacques stood by wondering what he was after. The larger musketeer emerged with an exclamation and brandished the cannonball.

“Forget about the English, Jacques. This is one of our own.”

***

The usual hustle around the hotel de Tréville was somewhat lackluster; although still crowded with musketeers in full battle gear, playing cards, drinking and swearing off the Cardinal and his men, the general commotion was very much subdued due to the overwork that Tréville had put in during the past few weeks, especially after the captain had been seen throwing out a musketeer from his second floor window because the man had caused a raucous while he was asleep.

That night was to be just as promising when Porthos and Jacques showed up, panting, and pushed their way through the sea of blue uniforms and up the large set of stairs to the office door, interrupted in their way by a lackey who very nearly cowered in fear at the sight of Porthos.

“I’m afraid that Captain de Tréville is not visible at the moment,” he said, squirming under the flashing eyes of the giant man.

“He will be visible for me, I’m sure,” replied the musketeer as he pushed the servant aside and knocked on the door, making it splinter. The noise made by the door was immediately followed by a deafened thump from within.

“Ventredious!”

The door opened wide on Tréville, whose hat rested askew on his head and who was sporting a large ink stain on his cheek. His eyes narrowed when he saw Porthos standing there with the cannonball beneath his arm.

“Porthos there had better be someone dying if you are disturbing me in the middle of the wretched night! And why the hell are you carrying around a cannonball?” demanded Treville, his voice climbing into an irate roar. There were stifled snickers from the men close by who had gotten a good look at their captain’s ink blotched face. Jacques stepped out from behind Porthos and eyed Treville nervously. Porthos went to speak but was interrupted by an impatient “Well?” from Treville and frowned.

“Captain, something happened while we were out on a patrol,” said Jacques quietly and when the captain’s bloodshot eyes turned on him, the musketeer quailed. Treville glared at Porthos, waiting for an explanation, and was shown the cannonball.

“Someone fired one of the cannons from the ground tonight,” stated Porthos grimly. “It destroyed two houses in the Cour des Ormes and almost hit us.”

Treville’s expression became quite black and he disappeared from the door a moment only to return wearing a hat, tying his doublet, and with a cape thrown over his arm.

“Come with me,” he ordered, marched off while swinging the cape over his one shoulder and passed between the two musketeers, who swiftly followed him out of the manor house. Despite being a shorter man, as Gascons were, and being older than either Porthos or Jacques, Treville was moving very swiftly and they were forced to keep pace with him or be left behind to suffer his wrath later for not keeping up. At this quick march, it did not take long for the three men to reach the imposing stone building that was the Bastille prison, which was also used as a storehouse for weapons and gunpowder. When Treville beat the main gate with his fist, it was swiftly opened and a musketeer lieutenant stood beyond it; they had been expected.

“I have apprehended the idiot, Captain. It was Griseux who shot that cannon. He stinks of drink and thought he could knock one of those demon ships out of the sky!” said the lieutenant scathingly. Treville nodded.

“Well done Baisemaux,” he said coldly. “Bring him to me.”

Lieutenant Baisemaux bent his head in a quick bow, spun on his heel and marched away. They entered the building, making sure to latch the great door behind them, and Treville led their way towards the office of the governor of the Bastille, who was quick to leap from his seat upon their arrival and offer its use to the musketeer captain. Griseux was brought in, held up between Baisemaux and another musketeer, and led over to the chair set before the desk and was dropped into it unceremoniously. Treville glared at him over folded hands.

“Well,” he said, after a moment of silence. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

Griseux was drunk, but not nearly enough not to feel the heaviness of the tone of the captain and the seriousness of the situation. He wiped at his reddened nose with his sleeve and looked at Tréville from beneath the brim of his hat. The lack of training showed in his dress; the regulatory white feather which had been pristine not even two days prior was now singed, as were his eyebrows and several parts of his uniform.

“Answer me, Griseux! What in the world could possess you to throw away all prudence, to use a large weapon like this before learning how to use it? Did you not realise that you were endangering the life of the Parisians, your comrades and your own?”

Griseux shuffled awkwardly in his seat, avoiding the stares of the five others in the room. He looked down at his boots, dressed in a coating of mud, and mumbled something. Treville demanded that he repeat himself.

"Sorry," slurred Griseux louder, slowly becoming more sober.

Jacques shuffled behind Tréville’s chair at this and Porthos’ moustache bristled. As for Tréville, there was no describing the expression his face held as he glowered down at the culprit.

“You’re sorry?” The tone was low, yet icy, and it tore right through the young man who cringed on his seat as if hoping that it would swallow him whole. “You will have plenty to be sorry about, young man. It was obviously a mistake to promote you to this company so early. I hereby strip you of your commission, Griseux. Being sorry does not compensate for the damage made, not only to buildings here in the city, but also to the morale of the Parisians, and the harm you might have caused with your foolish behaviour.”

Unable to deal with the sight of the now incoherent man before him, Treville gestured for Baisemaux to remove Griseux from his sight. Before being taken away, the young man's uniform was silently removed from his person and set on the desk in front of the captain. Then the now mute Griseux was bodily lifted and dragged away, his sentence for the destruction to be decided at a later date. Porthos looked down at the cannon ball in his hands with a heavy sigh. Who would have thought that a ball of metal would cause such a problem?

**For today’s historical fact, we are exploring gunpowder, which was first invented in China around the seventh century, by an alchemist, who found the explosive properties of sulfur, charcoal and saltpeter mixed together while he was looking for a recipe for immortality. Gunpowder made its way into Europe in the middle of the thirteenth century through Islamic traditions. 1338 was the year that is said to be the first event where gunpowder was used in a siege in France. Did you know that cannon can shoot a cannonball up to a mile away?**


	14. Moments & Misdeeds

The overcast clouds predicted an oncoming summer shower but until mid-morning, they had not broken. Athos smirked as he looked out the window at the distant ships amongst those clouds and felt a sense of vindictive pleasure at the thought that Buckingham was up there getting soaked along with his men. _Serves them right for laying siege to Paris_. Orianne’s voice cut across his thoughts.

“Is there something funny outside?” she asked randomly, turning in her seat and tilting her head to look at him. He blinked at her a moment or two then left the open window.

“No, nothing at all,” he said, approaching her. “Show me how you’ve done with those letters.”

Athos and Orianne had been working together for the past week on her reading and writing, starting very slowly with small words like _chat_ and _pain_ , basic words that should be understood. Her penmanship was in need of much more practice, Athos could see that; however, from what he could decipher, her spelling was improving. He nodded after reading over the list, took the quill from her fingers, and made some corrections. She sighed and her head fell forward just a little in dismay.

“I thought I had gotten them all this time,” she muttered coldly, her mouth set in a firm and bitter line. Athos gave her shoulder a quick, reassuring press.

“This sort of thing takes much more time and practice than what we have but, with what time we have used, you have improved.” She offered him a tiny smile in reply and he resisted smiling back, but a warm feeling crept over him unexpectedly. He shook his head to try and drive it away. He returned the plume to her and dictated more words for her to write down, leaning against the other side of the table so as not to see her work else he would not resist correcting, as all those who know their own language are wont to do.

As Athos was listing the words, he found his eyes wandering along her, following the line of her bared neck to a half-covered and mostly creamy white shoulder, her arm clothed in an aged grey sleeve and crooked funnily to hold and use the pen. Her hair was tied up tight in a knob again, he noted, and he could see purple spots along her shoulder where it had been harshly gripped. He frowned to himself unconsciously, focused on those spots and their implications of mistreatment. In their brief three weeks of acquaintance, he had seen many bruises on the young woman, suspected there were more he never saw, and was slowly realising how these facts bothered him, how the abuse disturbed him. He had started coming by every day last week under the guise of consistent tutelage in her reading, but it was partially to make sure that she would still be here and able to stand and move and live in some sense of the word. He did not know when he had come to care so much, so quickly. _Must be the Gascon’s fault_ , he thought ironically.

Athos had not been the only one who had come to realisation that he still had a heart. The man had overheard Aramis and Porthos speculating the previous night as to their old friend’s sudden dedication to the safety and learning of a foreign peasant girl, heavily implying that it was so much more than a sense of duty and honouring a gentleman’s promise. _Ha! I will prove them wrong_ , he thought then chastised himself internally for sounding so childish. What was happening to him?

“Athos, might I stop for a little bit?” Orianne asked nervously. She had dropped the formal address some days ago and he had, oddly enough, not corrected the situation. He nodded to her and she left the table for a sparse shelf in the corner that contained a few wooden dishes and some bits of food, nothing he would consider eating even at his poorest. She returned with two plates, placing one before him with a wary glance.

“I know it isn’t much,” she said apologetically at the expression of distaste that he couldn’t quite hide from her. “But it is all I have.”

He watched silently as she sat herself down on her chair and separated the pitiful morsels equally amongst the two plates, mechanically biting on his bottom lip. The chunk of bread was poor quality, the black sort, rock hard and impossible to chew; enough cheese for a mouthful each, and a few nondescript shriveled fruits. He drew his dagger and poked experimentally at a fruit, quite sure that eating any of this would poison him. He watched her take the rock-like bread and try to bite into it, whimpering from the effort and pain to her teeth, and could not stand another minute. He rose swiftly, snatched up both plates and tossed the ‘food’ out the window into the street sloppy with mud and refuse. Orianne stared at him horrified, still holding the black lump in her right hand. Silently, he set down the plates on the table again, took his hat and cape and departed, leaving her shocked, confused, hungry, hurt, and just a little angry. Slow, hot tears trickled down her cheeks as she smashed the black bread on the table, cracking the lump into pieces and eating half of them. With no food until her mother returned from pawning her treasures or selling her wares, she would have to make this last. She swore against Athos, borrowing curses her father usually threw at her, and condemning him to as many horrors as her imagination allowed, which would have been nothing but petty troubles for an experienced soldier.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, Orianne panicked and began to whip about the room in all haste to remove anything that indicate someone else had been there besides herself, throwing the parchment haphazardly into her tiny chamber and spilling the ink all over her hands when she fumbled with the cork. The door opened and Athos entered without a thought of waiting, his feather dripping, his boots heavily splashed with mud, and his cape bundled up in his hands like a satchel. They stared at each other, frozen in place, until Athos removed his hat once more; set his bundle on the table, pulled a handkerchief from the black sleeve of his doublet, and offered it to her.

“Thank you, I do not need it,” she said, pulling away from him and trying to clean her hands behind her apron so that it wouldn’t show. He watched her as she did so for a few moments, and then approached her and took both her hands in his to clean them.

“Let go,” she demanded but was ignored. She jerked her wrists and could not get free.

“Hold still,” he growled, carefully working between her fingers.

“Why did you leave like that?” she blurted out suddenly. “Why did you throw away my food? I told you it was all I had and you took it away!” Angry tears fell from her reddened eyes again and she rubbed her cheeks against her shoulders into the cloth of her dress.

Without even thinking about it, Athos pulled Orianne to him and pressed her head against his shoulder, holding her. He held her there for a moment, his chin resting atop her head, trying to understand what could possibly have prompted him to do such a thing. He could feel her somewhat tense frame and the heat radiating from her cheek on his shoulder. Finally, he released her and went over to the table onto which he’d laid his folded up coat.

“That wasn’t food,” he said, unwrapping the material and showing a wicker basket, which he set on its own on the table surface, followed by some napkins and a bottle of wine. “This, however, is.”

He emptied the contents of the basket on the table. There was a large piece of fresh, moist cheese and a bread baguette still hot that crinkled wonderfully as he set it down. Along with these was a large sausage, some raspberries, blueberries and two pastries that looked like they were covered in honey and strawberry jam.

Orianne’s blue eyes widened beyond belief, her nose twitching with the energy a rabbit’s at all the smells, and then she blushed as her stomach roared and rumbled. She wrapped her arms about herself and turned away from the table.

“I hope you enjoy it,” she stammered, biting her lips and trying to ignore the delicious, wafting odours.

“Orianne, come to the table, please,” Athos said with something of a huff in his voice. He sat himself at the end chair and waited for the young woman to join him, which she did more than reluctantly. He cut the sausage in equal parts and broke open the bread with his hands, releasing more smell into the air. He separated the fruit equally and filled the plates, one of which he set before Orianne.

She stared for several moments when Athos began to eat then took a blueberry and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly and savouring the sweetness of its juice with eyes closed and a tiny smile brushing her lips. It was impossible to deny that this was a lot better than anything she had eaten in a long time. When she opened her eyes again, Athos was holding the bottle of wine that he had bought with the food and searching with his eyes.

“If you are looking for cups, I am afraid I broke them all yesterday,” she said with a dismayed sigh. “I burnt the previous night’s dinner and was punished for it, but because I am so clumsy, I knocked into the shelf and was punished further for the damage.”

She felt his eyes upon her and she focused on a knot in the table’s surface. After allowing himself a few minutes to compose his calm, Athos mustered a shrug and brought the bottle to his lips, taking a hearty gulp from it as though he had not a care in the world. He handed the bottle to her afterwards with something of a smile.

“It’s alright; we’ll make do without any. Try this wine and tell me what you think.”

She took the bottle, passed it between her hands in hesitation then brought the opening to her lips and tipped her head to sip. It was sweet on her palate after the blueberries and it felt good to drink right from the bottle, which her mother would have scolded her for due to its crude appearance. Her father did this all the time and it was one of many sources of tension.

"It's very good," she said softly, passing the bottle back to him. The meal was silent after this, drifting slowly into awkward. She lifted a hand and brushed at blank space of her chest where her collar bones ended as if to touch something, scratching lightly with her nails in confusion before realising her actions and dropping her hand, very much embarrassed.

"Do you have any other friends besides Monsieur Aramis?" she asked suddenly, trying to fill the silence.

He nodded as he took a bite out of his bread and chewed, wondering to himself why he had yet to speak to her more about the subject.

“I have two other close friends beside him. Their names are Porthos and D’Artagnan. Porthos is a musketeer and D’Artagnan, a guard… for now.”

He took another gulp from the bottle and a mouthful of sausage.

She tipped her head at him, looking very much like a confused hound, her smile bemused as she nibbled on fresh bread.

"You are a very strange gentleman. You say these are close friends but yet you only tell of the most basic thing about them, and if you are as close as you say then why spend your week here in this cluttered, pitiful place?"

The meal ended soon after that and Athos departed thoughtful and a little confused. He looked up from the street to see Orianne watching him from the window and he lifted his hand in a quick valediction before heading down the street.

***

“You are sure those children did not see you take these?” Richelieu demanded of Father Joseph. The man in his grey robes shook his head.

“Neither paid me any attention,” he said calmly. “They were occupied with each other. The king is nervous.”

“As he should be,” said Richelieu coldly. “The little peacock knows nothing of how to lead a kingdom. France will not survive Buckingham’s siege with the King guiding her.”

“What of your defences? They should be nearly complete?”

Richelieu nodded, sitting at his personal writing desk, which was now barren of any tools with which to write. The King had ordered every parchment scrap, every ink bottle, every quill (broken or not) removed from the _Palais Cardinal_ , and his own men were replaced with royal musketeers to ensure that none loyal to Richelieu could help him break free from his arrest. He was fed and looked after and allowed to wander the building, but was otherwise dreadfully bored and silently stewed with rage at the very indignity of the situation. Father Joseph had only gotten in thanks to their shared knowledge of the passages interwoven through the walls of the _Palais_ that the King’s men knew nothing about.

“I need loyal men; men to be my eyes outside of these walls and shan’t betray me to the King. You can see inside the palace but beyond those walls, I am blind,” stated Richelieu, his brow furrowed.

“There are men who are still loyal. Your captain is one of them, M. Jussac is another—”

“Jussac is a failure and an idiot,” Richelieu snapped, cutting off his confidante. “If anything, bring me De Cavoie, and find Milady as well. I need her to take something to Buckingham. If Louis wants to humiliate me, wants to fight against me now then I shall have to raise the stakes of this siege affair. Get me something to write with and some parchment. Luckily, I still have my sealing wax.”

***

The following day, the rain cleared but the clouds still covered the sky and the air was hot, heavy, and sticky. Buckingham fanned himself in his cabin, stripped down to his shirtsleeves and breeches, his normally well-styled pompadour hair flattened with sweat. The brown locks clung to his forehead and neck and he scratched his ears irritably from where the hair tickled.

“Damn France and this blasted heat!” he cursed, standing suddenly and throwing his fan on the table unfolded. It cracked under the blow and Buckingham violently brushed it aside, letting it fall to the floor and break in pieces. He was growing tired of his own waiting. He had sent Richelieu a response to the alliance, granted not written in a way of complete submission as the Cardinal had hoped for, but had received nothing in return thus far and it put the Duke on edge. What was the minister plotting?

“Milord, one of the gate guards is signalling us!” his captain called. Buckingham rolled his eyes, shrugged on his doublet but did not tie it, and left the cabin. He shielded his eyes from the sunlight with a snarl and took the telescope from the waiting man to peer through and saw a green coloured torch burning, the arranged signal for important messages.

“Land, at once!” Buckingham ordered, privately thrilled. It would do him some good to stretch his legs on land. A man can only walk the length of a boat so much and look at so many clouds before becoming intolerable. He returned to his cabin to dress; it would not do for him to greet the messenger inappropriately attired.

Upon landing, Buckingham recognised the carriage as the one he procured for Milady, and the woman herself stood by it, wearing a white dress whose square collar bared her collarbones and left the upper swells of her breasts free to his gaze. She tapped the scroll in her hand against her other one impatiently. He smirked at her, bent, and took her hand to kiss.

“Welcome back, my dear. I trust you stay in the city has so far been comfortable?”

“It has,” she said, “but you shall cause another riot when the anchor is lifted so I can return inside. The people are troubled, scared, and soon to be desperate.”

“Excellent,” he said proudly, releasing her hand. “Soon they will give me anything in exchange for their freedom.”

“His Eminence sends his regards,” she stated, holding out the scroll. He took it from her, broke the seal, and scanned its contents. He chuckled darkly, rolling it up once more.

“It seems the Cardinal has had some problems—”

“He has been put under house arrest,” said Milady.

“And now agrees to help in my siege in exchange for time to finish his preparations,” finished Buckingham, hardly hearing her. Milady frowned at being ignored but Buckingham was too interested in Richelieu giving in to his terms to pay attention to much else. She turned to the carriage and mounted the first step.

“Go back to the Cardinal and tell him I will give the time he needs,” said Buckingham to Milady suddenly, “Try to find out what exactly he needs the time for however. It does no good for half of this alliance to know nothing at all.”

Milady nodded, climbed into her carriage, and returned inside the city to the predicted riot, leaving Buckingham to bask in his recent achievement.

***

Porthos and Athos were coming off duty after yet another riot. It seemed that Buckingham was finding it quite amusing to get the hopes of populace aroused by lifting the anchor of one of his ships at a gate. Both a musketeer and a guard had been trampled in the rush of people and Treville and Des Essarts were going to inform the families as soon as someone could be sent from the city to do just that. Porthos broke up a struggle in a market square over bread that an older woman had just purchased and another was trying to take from her whilst Athos had been distracted by a cobbler’s shop, of all things.

“My family is starving, Monsieur! I bet she doesn’t even have children anymore!”

“Let her go, you brute! You are supposed to be protecting us, not manhandling women?!”

“I thought you had just gotten new boots Athos?” Porthos asked, interrupting his secret thoughts and ignoring the voices of the angry woman. Athos started slightly and looked at him, quick to hide a guilty expression that he’d felt form.

“Go home without me, Porthos,” said Athos. “I need to visit Orianne.” Porthos gave him a strange look, as if he was trying not to laugh and it was painfully difficult. He released the woman once the elder one was far enough away.

“Without eating any breakfast, Athos? Aren’t you a bit keen? She may not even be awake yet,” said Porthos, tapping his walking stick on the ground.

“Just go, Porthos,” growled Athos, walking into the shop.

“I might as well come with you!” Porthos declared, stomping in after him. “My boots are starting to crack.” Athos muttered a curse against his friend but low enough that Porthos did not hear it. The shop was lit by several candles and windows, making it bright, and there was a consistent smell of fresh leather permeating the air. The cobbler stood behind his work bench working on a set of small, black boots, possibly for a child given the size.

“May I help you, Messieurs?” he asked, setting down his shoe hammer and straightening to face them. Porthos removed his boot and unceremoniously plunked it down on the table before him.

“Take a look at this, Monsieur, and tell me what can be done with it. The leather is cracking.”

Athos browsed as Porthos had his footwear examined and his eyes fell upon a pair of green shoes decorated with prettily ruffled, golden roses. There was a small heel to them and the shoe itself was quite narrow. He frowned, looked back at the occupied cobbler, and picked it up to look at it closer. _Perhaps, if it was a couple sizes bigger..._

“Monsieur, do those shoes interest you, maybe as a present for your wife?” Athos truly did jump this time, the object fumbling in his hands until he caught hold of it again, whipping around to face the smiling proprietor.

“I am not married,” said Athos stiffly. “They’re for a friend.” The man made an ‘ahh’ sound in some sort of understanding.

“Very well, Monsieur. That will be—”

“Is it possible for you to widen them?” Athos asked. His face was emotionless. The cobbler blinked at him.

“Pardon?”

“My friend has wide feet. Could you make the shoes wider?” he asked again, getting slightly irritable. The owner nodded slowly, taking the shoe from him to examine it closely.

“It could be done. I suppose your friend is a very large woman of poorer breeding, Monsieur? She must be to have such large feet,” remarked the cobbler. Athos glared at him silently and the man grabbed the other and hurried away to escape it. Porthos thumped over, testing his refreshed boots, and nodding with satisfaction.

“This man does good work Athos,” said Porthos happily. “Did you find anything?”

“One thing,” said Athos shortly and saying nothing more besides. Porthos found himself becoming quite bored standing there waiting and left soon thereafter, bidding Athos a good morning. After he’d gone, the cobbler returned bearing the larger shoes, which Athos almost emptied his purse to pay for. A soldier’s pay was sporadic at best but recently seemed to have dried up, entirely forgotten by both the King and Treville with the recent downturn of morale in the people. Athos tucked the shoes under his cape and slipped out of the shop, careful to keep them out of sight. He was so interested in getting away as fast as possible that he did not see Porthos against the wall watching him with a smirk. _Wonder if Athos has realised that he likes her yet?_ Porthos wondered to himself.

The musketeer rushed out of the market and through the streets, the people and buildings blurring in his vision until he stopped to catch his breath outside his own home, his hand pressed to the wall. Despite returning to active duty, he was quite out of shape after his year of wallowing in self-pity. He mopped at the sweat sprinkling his forehead, took a few more deep breaths, and then stood tall and walked further down the street. The second floor lodging looked still within from the ground. He climbed the stairs slowly, wincing when they creaked under his boots. He knocked lightly on the door beside the broken lamp and its table. It swung open and Orianne looked upon him in utter shock. She looked different; her hair was down again and her dress was oddly colourful with a stark white apron over the front from the waist down. She reached out, pulled him inside by a jerk of his collar, and shoved him into her chamber. She pressed a finger fervently to her lips to beg for his silence and shut the door on him. There was the sound of distant footsteps and a harsh voice spoke. Her mother was still here.

“Monsieur Dubois will be arriving this morning to pick up his shirts Orianne, so don’t you dare get them dirty or tear the lace!”

“ _Oui Maman_ ,” said Orianne softly.

“Make sure that the next coloured batch is finished and wear your gloves, child! It does not do to have all of your fingertips dyed different colours,” dictated Loanne. Orianne nodded in understanding.

“I will return this evening with fish,” said Loanne, taking her large basket on her hip. She glared at her daughter’s wrinkled nose. “You will eat it and enjoy it. You are not to leave this room. Am I clear?”

“ _Oui Maman_.” Loanne left and Orianne breathed a sigh of relief. The young woman marched back over to her door and flung it open. Athos was still standing there but his face was dark.

“You should not be putting up with this,” he said. She shrugged, indifferent, and replied:

“It is the only life I know, Athos. Why are you here so early? You were almost caught!” Athos shuffled a little awkwardly. He had been foolish to come so soon. He knew better than this. Had he performed with such haste during a mission, he would most likely have been killed.

“I wanted to give you these,” he said gruffly, unravelling his hand and the new shoes from the cape over his one shoulder. She stared at them, reached out with trembling fingers to touch them.

“They’re beautiful Athos but why—” Orianne looked at him with bright eyes.

“For the lace,” he interrupted, flicking his hat brim.

“Oh,” she said, voice tinged with disappointment. “Thank you.” She took the shoes, brushed past him to sit on her bed, and changed her wooden shoes for the new ones. She knocked her heels together and wobbled a little when she stood due to the slight extra height, but she did not complain of any pain thus they fit well. They spent the morning together, continuing the reading and writing lessons until Monsieur Dubois arrived for his articles. Athos was once more sequestered in Orianne’s chamber out of sight.

“Mademoiselle, as a tailor myself, I must say that you are quite a talented lace weaver,” said the rather square-shouldered man. Orianne bowed her head, her cheeks warm.

“Thank you, Monsieur. I hope you shall return for more in due time.”

“Yes, yes, you would be a treasure in my shop, I can assure you. Perhaps I will speak to your father about it,” suggested Dubois with a smile. “I am certain my son would be pleased to meet you as well.”

“My parents shall have returned this evening, Monsieur,” said Orianne.

“Very well, then. I will pay them a visit. Good day, Mademoiselle.” Dubois handed her the required payment, took his shirts, and left. As soon as Athos heard the door close, he burst from the small room, his expression blacker than the first time he had been shut in there.

“Athos, are you alright?” Orianne asked frightfully, backing away from him. Athos grunted, took his hat, and left without another word.

***

“Planchet, wine!” Athos demanded as soon as he entered. Planchet jumped, spilling some herbs in the fire that he was trying to string up to dry.

“Right away, sir!” declared the stout man, rushing to get a bottle. Aramis raised a brow at the irate older man; D’Artagnan moved aside to give Athos space.

“Did you and Mademoiselle Orianne get in a fight, Athos?” Aramis asked, setting down his cup. Athos grabbed the offered cup from Planchet and drank from it deeply.

“No,” growled Athos, “And I don’t need to be interrogated for your own amusement!” Planchet refilled the cup immediately after it was set down again.

“Fine, then,” said Aramis coldly, hardly appreciating the reprimand. “The landlord will be coming tomorrow. Do you have your part of the rent?” Athos gave him a withering look and reached for his purse; however, when he picked it up, it was incredibly light. In his haste to buy Orianne’s gift, Athos had forgotten about the rent and thus, he was very short. D’Artagnan and Aramis waited, watching his face go from stern anger to surprise to its usual stony facade in a matter of moments.

“Well, Athos? Where is it?” Aramis asked again, narrowing his eyes. They’d all drank the rent money away some time or another in the last year, but Athos had no smell of drink on him upon his arrival. Athos moved from the table to his normal seat and leaned back against the wall.

“I don’t have it, Aramis,” said Athos, drinking some more.

“Why not?” questioned D’Artagnan. “You had it yesterday; you said you did.” Aramis shot the boy a sharp look too late to silence him. Athos glared, stood to walk into his room, and slammed the door shut.

“What is wrong with him?” D’Artagnan looked at Aramis for a possible answer. The man shrugged.

“Seems like he got in a spat with his lady friend,” said Planchet, snickering. Porthos chose to walk in at this moment and paused upon seeing his friends and their servant staring at Athos’ door.

“The door doesn’t talk. It’s as silent as Athos! I thought you knew that?”

“Athos stormed in like a bear with a thorn in its paw,” said D’Artagnan, “and he doesn’t have the rent money.”

“Well, he wouldn’t after buying those shoes today, would he?” said Porthos, scooping up the abandoned bottle and swigging from it.

“He bought shoes?” said Aramis in disbelief.

“Yes, really nice ones” said Porthos, “He said they were for a friend. I assume it was for his peasant girl.”

This information left D’Artagnan thoughtful and Aramis more curious than ever. What was happening to Athos?

***

Two days later, Athos was informed by a gleeful Orianne that she was to be married. The musketeer stared at her in shock until the smile dropped from her face and she started to appear hurt by his lack of reaction.

“I thought you be happy for me,” she said, confused.

“How did this happen?” he demanded. “When?!”

“Y-Yesterday evening, Athos,” she stammered. “Monsieur Dubois came to visit my parents like he promised.”

_“Madame, Monsieur, your daughter has such talent,” said Dubois. “Her lace will make up for her lack of dowry in little time, I am sure.”_

_“Monsieur Dubois, that is most kind of you,” Loanne simpered, “but I don’t know if I am ready to part with my daughter just yet.”_

_“Madame, she’s a very sturdy young woman with the fairness of a noble. If she should ever wed, it must be now before she becomes a spinster!” insisted Dubois. Rudolf considered the tailor and coughed roughly._

_“We can’t have her becoming a spinster. It would look bad on all of us,” said the German coarsely. “Bring your son around so they can be acquainted and we shall proceed with the marriage.” The two men shook hands, exchanged the pleasures of kindness and thanks, and Monsieur Dubois departed._

_“Orianne, you make sure your dirndl **(1)** is in perfect condition! We will not be getting you another dress just for your wedding day,” yelled Loanne through the young woman’s door. _

_“It will be, Maman. I promise!” Orianne yelled back._

“And soon, I will be married and free of Maman and Papa,” said Orianne, grabbing Athos’ hands and turning them both in a circle. Athos looked less than pleased.

“You can’t go through with this,” he said, surprising himself.

“Why can’t I?” she asked him nervously. _Yes Athos,_ _why not_? His thoughts mocked, to which he growled:

“Because there is better out there than a poor tailor’s son!” he declared.

“And who would that be, Athos?” He was silent. He would open his mouth to say something, but he did not quite know what to say, so he closed it again. She glared at him, waiting for a response. He looked her up and down, taking in her eyes that were looking at him with such confusion, her flushed cheeks, her fresh, pink mouth half open, her bosom heaving under her corset with restrained emotion. A sudden heat began to curl through him, settling low in his belly. _What am I doing?!_ He tore his eyes away, looked anywhere else but at her.

“I won’t allow you to do this,” he said firmly, looking into her eyes after having regained control of his impulse. Orianne blinked at him and gave him a bemused grin.

“I don’t believe there is anything you can do,” she said. “You could not convince them to withdraw the proposal.” He stared at her until she shifted awkwardly; her words had been a revelation. That was exactly what he could do!

“I have to go,” he said suddenly. He had nothing to grab as he’d worn neither his cape nor his hat this day. He was at the stairs when she grabbed his hand between her own.

“Are you angry with me?” she asked fretfully. “Did I do something to displease you?

“No,” he said, “Never.” He surprised himself again with the truthfulness of the sentiment. He really needed to stop that.

“Then why are you leaving so soon? You only just arrived! Was it something I said?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” he said, nodding a little. “I will come back tomorrow. Do not fear; I hold no ill will to you.” Withdrawing his hand, he descended. He stopped at the door, turning to look at her still standing there.

“When will your _betrothed_ be coming around?” he asked.

“Tonight, I believe. Why do you ask?”

“I was only curious. I will see you tomorrow.” He left without another word. Orianne dashed back into the lodging, tripped, toppled a side table piled with handkerchiefs, and leapt for the open window. She leaned far out of the frame to see Athos go towards his home and sit himself on the stairs leading to the front door and he did not move from there. Hours passed and still Athos did not move, staring down the street with an unflinching gaze.

“Athos, you’re blocking the stairs,” said a voice. Aramis was behind him, dressed all in black with his hat perched at a jaunty angle and cape thrown easily over his shoulder.

“Go around me,” Athos growled, shifting only slightly to his right.

“I can’t. As I just said, you’re blocking the stairs,” said Aramis, slightly irritated. “Why not just get up and let me by? It would take less than a minute.”

“Because I am waiting for someone, Aramis!” said Athos, glaring at him from the corner of his eye. Aramis rolled his own eyes and, bracing his foot on the railing, hopped over the wooden bars into the street.

“I hope whoever it is arrives soon. I would like to be able to get in for dinner later,” remarked Aramis before disappearing into the Parisian crowd. Athos gave a light snort at Aramis’ words but did not move from his post. He would wait until the wee night if he had to. Even he could not explain the importance of this ‘mission’, not even to himself. He saw Orianne’s mother return bearing a basket of fresh food. He saw her father arrive, staggering a bit from drink.

The sun was setting; his rear and back were dreadfully sore. The wooden stairs were not the least bit comfortable. He stretched, popped his spine with a groan, and then froze like a spotted rabbit upon seeing two men walking in the street side by side. One was older than the other and there was an easy feeling between the two, like that of a father and son. Athos stood, stumbled forward a little from the stiffness then regained his footing to approach quickly, halting them just before the door to Orianne’s home. Dubois’s son was built like his father, very square bodied with rather squashed nose but oddly thin, tapered fingers.  

“Messieurs, a word if you please,” said Athos, holding out a friendly hand. The older man looked at him strangely.

“Monsieur, do I know you?” he asked.

“No, but are you Monsieur Dubois senior?” asked Athos. The man nodded.

“Yes, I am. Do you need something? My son and I are in occupied at present with an appointment.”

“This is about that appointment, Monsieur,” said Athos with a half-smile. “I want you to forget about it, simply not show up, and send a letter tomorrow withdrawing your son’s proposal to Mademoiselle Orianne.” Monsieur Dubois looked at the musketeer with outrage.

“Now, see here sir, why should I do such a thing? It is a perfectly good match!”

“On the contrary, it is as far from perfect as possible.” Dubois was suddenly intrigued and nervous looking.

“And why might that be, Monsieur?” he asked tentatively. Athos’ mind raced to grasp a convincing lie.

“Because she is... already engaged to me,” he said. The ease that came from his mouth was— _No! I will not be shocked again!_

“Oh!” said Dubois astonished. “Her parents said nothing of the sort, Monsieur!”

“They didn’t, did they? I shall have to have words with them,” growled Athos, glaring up at the second floor rooms for good measure.

“In fact, Monsieur, I think you to be a decent man,” said Athos, removing his glove. “And for your troubles in this affair, I give you this ring as compensation so long as you do not mention to Mademoiselle’s parents that I informed you of the situation. I shall take care of it in my own time and way.”

Monsieur Dubois did not hesitate to take the ring and swear that he would say nothing about the kind gentleman to Orianne’s parents. He led his silent son away with due haste and Athos watched them go, his heart feeling lighter the smaller their shapes became.

**(1) The dirndl is the traditional German dress that dates back to the medieval period and is still worn to this day (but usually only for special occasions.) Traditional dirndl dresses are very colourful (often made with shades of red or green fabric but can be made with other colours) and always has a front laced corset and an apron, which is often intricate patterned. The white puffy sleeves can be either worn off the shoulder or covering it, making a squared neckline.**


	15. Problems & Presents

Louis wearily finished signing a parchment, the last of a large stack that was placed to his right on his personal desk. He sighed, yawned widely and glanced out the window, where the first sunrays were already showing over the horizon. The third night in a row, in which he had not slept a moment, had just gone by. He rubbed his creased forehead with his hand and stood, walking around his desk to go look at Anne, who, despite his insisting that she go to bed, was still sprawled on the chair near the wall. She was fast asleep, tucked under the king’s mantel that he had placed on her at around two in the morning. Her blonde curls, usually so meticulously pinned into halo about her head, were falling down over her shoulders. One single curl was lightly blown about by her soft, steady breathing. Louis reached out with gentle fingers to brush it behind her ear. She stirred, eyes half opening to look at him tiredly. It was a few moments before she registered her husband before her.

“Is it morning already?” she asked croakily. They had been so busy working that they had not even stopped to drink and thus her throat was now incredibly dry.

“Yes,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead. “It is six o’clock, or very near it.”

His servants usually came at six thirty to rouse him from his sleep so that he could listen to a private service and say his prayers before the beginning of the day. At the very moment, all Louis could think was how much he wanted to hide in some small corner in his castle and sleep for an entire week undisturbed. Unfortunately, he had a whole nation waiting for him and his decisions, even though he only just found out the scale of the task and how much Richelieu had taken beneath his wings.

“I’ll have the servants bring up something for us to breakfast on and something to drink,” he continued just as quietly, reaching for his robe and passing it tiredly around his shoulders. Their Majesties passed the time quietly, dozing on and off intermittently in their chairs, until Louis's personal valet de chambre La Chesnaye entered and stopped awkwardly upon sighting both his master and his wife.

"Ah, there you are!" said Louis.

"Your Majesty, would you rather I came back later?" asked La Chesnaye only to receive a negative sign from Louis.

"Please just bring us some breakfast, some good wine, and I will accept no audiences or other servants until I say otherwise." La Chesnaye bowed low and left the chambers, and its occupants, in peaceful silence again. Anne began to doze again. There was activity beyond the doors to Louis’ rooms but no one dared disturb the King by defying his strict orders. La Chesnaye returned bearing a full tray of freshly roasted game (rabbit and pheasant). A maid followed him with another tray topped with a bottle of wine, two glasses, a plate of warm baguette, and fruits (predominantly plums.) Louis nodded his thanks and waved away both servants so he could wake Anne and the two of them could eat. She stirred and woke slowly and only picked at the food before her. Louis, too, found his appetite lacking as his want of sleep grew and shortly thereafter Anne departed for her chambers for more much needed rest, and as much as Louis wanted to do the same, he had no time for it nor could he allow himself any. With Richelieu removed, he was doing more work than he had ever imagined.

“Your Majesty,” La Chesnaye bid as he entered once more. Two maids removed the mostly full trays and the valet strode over to the wall that housed the King’s extensive wardrobe. “Your priest has arrived for your morning prayers and Monsieur de Tréville awaits an audience at the earliest convenience.” He pulled a blue doublet with a gold damask pattern from the wardrobe and the matching slashed breeches.

“Bid the Father good morning and send him in, and inform Treville that I will see him above others this morning after I have prayed,” said Louis, lifting his legs so that La Chesnaye could easily assist him pulling on his hose and breeches. His shirt was changed for a fresh, white one and this too was also carefully pulled over his head, tied in the front, and then covered with the doublet. La Chesnaye then tied the jewel-tipped aiguillettes and gathered up the discarded clothing of the previous night over his arm and set those aside on a chair before bringing Louis’ shoes, which were decorated with golden roses. He gathered the clothes again and left the room as Louis made his way over to his _prie-Dieu_ before a window and the priest entered with a worn bible to recite verses and guide His Majesty’s prayers. All of these parts of the King’s shockingly private _levee_ took most of an hour and Tréville awaited Louis’ attention in his office, pacing the floor with a furrowed brow and deep set frown.

“Ah Tréville, I am glad you are here,” said Louis as he entered. Tréville snapped to attention, swept his hat from his head, and bowed low to his monarch.

“It is always a pleasure, Your Majesty,” said Tréville warmly. “Thank you for seeing me so early.” Louis gestured for his captain to sit after he had done so himself and nodded to Tréville for him to begin his request.

“Your Majesty, it has been brought to my attention from some of the musketeers that they have not been paid, as of late,” began Tréville delicately as it was never good to trouble the King with such points of finance; these were better left to his Superintendant. “Most would not come to you with this matter, but Sire, they are your musketeers.”

Louis nodded tiredly, dizzying himself from the effort. His head pounded, his eyes burned, and it took all the will he had to focus on the nobleman before him. He had no head for money at this moment.

“Tréville, I will write you a letter for my Superintendant,” said Louis, drawing his quill and ink towards himself, quickly drafting the letter. “Bring this to him and he will make it a priority that your company is paid.”

“There are, also, the companies of Des Essarts and Richelieu's guards, which you took lead of in place of His Eminence,” said Tréville. Louis glared at him, suddenly feeling a flash of annoyance.

“Tréville, if your brother-in-law Des Essarts needs money to pay his men then let him seek an audience with me!” Tréville sat up a little straighter in his chair and got a full view of the King’s grey face and reddened eyes. The letter still sat on Louis’ desk, the sand still sprinkled over it to soak up the excess ink. “As for Richelieu’s men, I will deal with his captain, De Cavoie, and take care of them.”

Finally, Louis shook the damp sand from the paper, folded it, melted wax on the seal, and pressed it with his signet ring. Then he handed the completed letter to Tréville. The captain took the letter, bowing again when Louis dismissed him. He stopped at the door and turned around to look at Louis hunched over his desk, already examining some document left there.

“Your Majesty?” Louis looked up, his expression cross. Tréville continued: “May I speak frankly?”

Louis sighed, set down his quill, and nodded slowly.

“Sire, you look as if you are living in hell,” said Tréville firmly. “Perhaps you should get some more sleep before doing any more?” The King offered a bitter half-smile.

“I shall take your advice Tréville,” he said, “perhaps in the next century when I am not so occupied.” Tréville bowed again, turned, and left quietly, shutting the door behind him.

***

Athos walked out of the hotel de Tréville alongside Porthos and Aramis, their newly filled purses jingling with their pay. Tréville had taken them aside and privately informed them that Des Essarts, too, was going to approach the King today with a request for the forgotten money, so D’Artagnan could expect his pay this day or the next. The arrival of their pay meant that all musketeers would be taking residence in their favourite taverns to drink, gamble, and settle any accumulated debts. Porthos already had intentions for his newly gotten gains, which likely involved new clothes or a new mistress; Aramis too had made plans and was quick to depart from the group. As for Athos, he was unsure what to do with his money. He would drink some of it, he always did, he might gamble briefly to see if his recent luck with dice games continued, but beyond those short pastimes he had little else to use the money for. That is, until he passed alone through a market (Porthos having left him a short time ago) and spotted a stall laden with sparkling trinkets. Athos fingered the strings of his purse with a frown when the gentleman drew close.

“I see you eying my wares, Monsieur,” the proprietor said, smiling. “Perhaps something catches your attention? I have many fine glass stones that look just like proper gems; your mistress will never know the difference!”

“What makes you think I am buying for a mistress?” Athos demanded, glaring sharply. The man’s smile fell and he stepped back.

“Monsieur, I only assumed—”

“Your assumptions are misplaced, Monsieur,” said Athos coldly. He went to leave the stall, but he stopped as his gaze settled on a thin, single strand of rhinestones. Each stone was separated by a tiny, leaf-shaped piece of metal. He gave a small smile and picked up the necklace, playing the small stones through his gloved fingers.

“Monsieur,” Athos began, not taking his eyes from the jewellery, “how much does this cost?” He handed it to the man and it was examined closely with hum.

“Monsieur, I would be willing to let you have it for, say, a _pistole_?” said the owner, holding the necklace out to the musketeer, but keeping a firm grip on it with his thumb and forefinger. Athos dug through his purse and extracted a coin, placing it on the wood counter before him. He took the necklace and silently walked away, tucking it into his purse as well so as not to lose it before he reached his destination. He stopped at the edge of the market square, looked down at the pouch in his hand, and frowned in an unsettling aggravation.          

“Why did I just waste my money on this?!” he growled, startling a woman as she passed him throwing a dirty look his way for his scare. He Athos marched off in quite the huffy mood until he came to the steps of his lodging. He placed his foot on the first step and, with a sigh, looked over his shoulder and down the street. He knew exactly why he’d bought that necklace: he thought it would suit Orianne.

“Damn!” he swore, smacking his hand on the railing and turning to go two doors away, climb those so familiar stairs, and enter the apartment. The door was unlocked but there was no one there. Athos looked around, pausing between the two beds in the corners. A basin and pitcher sat on a cracked but ornate table there and when he wiped the inside with his finger, it was still wet. Someone had been here earlier in the day.

“Is someone there?” Orianne’s voice called. Athos whipped around but she was nowhere in sight.

“Orianne, where are you?” Athos asked, narrowing his eyes at the closed door that lead to her room. He could hear something knocking on it and drew close to it. “Are you in there?”

“Yes,” she answered. Her voice quavered. “P-please let me out.” The key was still in the lock. He turned it, opened the door slowly, and was suddenly tackled and clung to by a quaking body. Orianne was a sight; her hair was wild and tangled like she had been tearing at it and it was greasy with sweat. She was as pale as fresh flour but her eyes were red and swollen from tears. Her sleeves were ripped in half up to her elbows and the skin there marred with small, bloody half moons. He stared down in shock as he held her, feeling her shivering frame against his own and her fingers digging into his back through his doublet.

“Orianne, what happened to you?” he demanded in a low whisper. She sniffed and shook her head, hiding her face in his shoulder. He growled and jerked her away, grabbed her arms, and gave her a rough shake.

“Tell me!” he ordered loudly. She stared at him fearfully for a moment or two before she began to speak in a soft, steady, but very dull tone.

“Monsieur Dubois took back his proposal for me to marry his son. He gave no explanation as to why, but Maman and Papa are sure it is my fault. They say that I am a curse. Perhaps they’re right...” she paused as Athos released her and watched her with hawk-like attention as he guided her to a chair with a hand on the small of her back then sat himself.

“They punished me for being so foolish,” she continued, looking down at her hands folding and unfolding in her lap. She did not see Athos flinch. “Papa struck me for insolence when I tried to tell them I had done nothing and Maman locked me in there to think about my mistake. This was two days ago.” Here, the musketeer felt the weight of his actions pressing him with guilt. After speaking with Monsieur Dubois, Athos did not visit as he had promised; thinking it wise to visit the following day but then another riot had broken out during his patrol the previous afternoon that had exhausted him, so he did not come that day either. Now, he was regretting his brief, shocking moment of selfishness, and yet more guilt stabbed at him when her stomach gave a loud, undeniable rumble and she curled up in her chair as if to silence it. He reached out for one of her hands and pressed it quickly but firmly.

“I will be back with food,” he said, standing. “It will give you time to clean yourself up. You’ll feel better if you do.” She nodded mutely and with that, he left for the same market he had frequented earlier in the morning. He was back within the quarter of an hour; food within the walls of the city was growing scarce (and more expensive), but he had been successful into obtaining some bread, cheese, a few plums and a flask of thick soup sold by a lady around the corner which had pleasantly attracted his nose. After fasting for two days, he was certain that Orianne would be glad to have the hearty liquid. He entered the small lodgings with his purchases and was pleased to see that she had lost no time in freshening up, and was sitting at her chair waiting with her hands folded in her lap. He gave her a small smile as he set up the food on the table, and motioned her to help herself to it.

“Thank you, Athos,” she said after serving herself a plum and some bread. He held out the flask to her.

“You had better drink this first. It will ease your throat,” he said before taking a hunk of bread for himself. She took it from him, drank, and choked briefly. What she did manage to swallow tasted of carrots and duck. He half stood to help her but her coughs slowed as her airways cleared and he sat back down. Her hair was still tangled looking but it was a mass of darker, twisted, and dripping spirals. _She must have poured the water pitcher over her head._ She was still very pale but a touch of pink was returning to her cheeks. She had changed into her coloured dress. The collar of the chemise she wore underneath the green overlay was square shaped; the laces of the corset bodice were white. The dress was certainly well cared for when compared to the one she had been wearing just a short time ago. Athos found himself fingering at his purse now again, as if the necklace was burning a hole in it. He watched her nibbling on a plum until she noticed his watching and set down the half-finished fruit.

“I have something for you,” he said, taking his purse.

“What is it?” He took out his gift and handed it to her with his palm down so she could not see it until he lifted his hand away. He kept his eyes on her face, which was a picture of confusion and apprehension, and then she gasped when she saw her gift. She stretched it out to see its full length and lifted it into the light from a window to make the little glass stones sparkle and to better see the details.

“Athos, it’s so lovely!” she exclaimed, looking at him with a bright, beaming smile. She held it back out to him. “Please, help me put it on?”

Athos nodded and stood, swept his hands free of bread crumbs, and approached to stand behind her, the jewellery swinging lightly in his hand. He spread the necklace apart and passed an arm over her head to hold the piece against her skin. He gently pulled it up as she lifted her hair for him to see and he hooked the clasp behind her neck. He let the chain fall and his hands lightly brushed on her collarbones. They were hard under her soft skin but not as sharp as Milady’s had been. _I suppose that makes sense since Orianne is a larger woman than she was_ , thought Athos to himself. He kept his hands on her shoulders, knowing he should pull away, but unsure about if he truly wanted to. Orianne let her hair down carefully over one shoulder then reached up with a shaking hand to place it over Athos’. They stayed this way for what felt like ages. The bells of Notre Dame rang loudly in the distance, shaking Athos from his revelry, and he pulled away.

“I should be going,” he said gruffly. She stood and nodded then sighed as she turned her gaze to her chamber, giving a quick shudder. Athos moved to leave but reached out and took his hand, squeezing his larger one.

“Wait, please,” she begged. “You need to lock me back in the room before you go.” Athos, too, looked at the room with a cold expression.

“Right, because if I do not then they will know another was here,” he muttered more to himself than to her. She went to take her hand away but he held fast to it a moment then released. Orianne sat on the small bed, the necklace eloquently framing her throat, her hair drying in loose twirls about her ears, and those pale eyes blinking slowly up at him. He picked up the key he had set aside earlier, lightly turning it in his hand.

“Orianne, are you sure—” he began.

“I will be fine, Athos,” she said. “I hate being in here, the walls pressing in on me...” she paused to shake her head and rid herself of the sick feeling in her gut that started to build.

“Until tomorrow,” he bid, shutting the door, quickly turning the key in the lock, and bolting from the apartment so as not to think about leaving her behind in that cramped little room. In the street, a carriage passing through was blocking his flight and he growled paying no attention to its occupants, despite the attention that was paid to him that evening and the following days.

***

Milady swayed within the carriage as it rolled and bounced along the rough cobblestone streets, her only company the driver guiding the horses. She had foregone the four disguised footmen in order to be more inconspicuous in her espionage. It would not do for Athos, Porthos, Aramis, or even the young Gascon to recall the presence of her coach; however, she had chosen to hide in plain sight. She had the driver stop the carriage in the street between Athos’ home and, it seemed, his new favourite place. She had been watching for days, discreetly of course, and Athos paid her carriage no notice as time had passed. The crowded street bustling with people and other passing carriages disguised her well enough. She watched him leave in the morning (even those after which he had been on patrols) and head two doors away into a dingier lodging and not come out for quite some time. It was often mid-afternoon by the time he reappeared. She was not sure if she was mistaken but she thought she could spot a smile on his face when he came from the dirty looking building, and this possibility stirred her curiosity.

One of those days where Athos did not go for his morning visit, Milady donned a cloak despite the thick, summer heat, and entered the lodging herself. Knocking on the door on the first floor had proved fruitless; the apartment seemed empty. The second floor revealed an occupied apartment where a rather rounded and plain young woman was found to be making coloured lace. She had bought some nice red bands from her in order to maintain an appearance. It was when the young woman had asked her if she had seen an older, handsome musketeer, dressed in black with a bearded face, and a rough attitude that Milady realised that this woman, this girl was the reason Athos was visiting so often.

“My my, Athos, what has she done to you?” she had remarked privately. It was a strange change from his tastes; he was a man of action and he liked his women dangerous. This girl was an epitome of innocence, duty, and obliging servitude; one who would be useless in the slightest of dangers. She wasn’t even half the beauty of Milady herself!

She smirked as the driver stopped in her usual spot and Milady made sure to sit just so in order that she would be hidden from view but she could easily see the street from the window. She counted out the chimes of the bells under her breath. _One, two, three, four, five, six_ , and before the seventh chime, Athos appeared at the bottom of his stairs, as predictable as the bells themselves, and marched the short distance to the home of his new mistress. He seemed almost youthful again in his eagerness, but she doubted that even he realised this. When Athos vanished, Milady tapped the ceiling with her stick and the driver whipped the horses into movement. There was no point in staying here any longer.

In the back of her mind, a plan was beginning to form in her head. If Athos was as attached to this girl as she suspected then perhaps she had found her way of getting revenge. But she had to be patient; she had to wait for just the right opportunity. Besides, she could always use Buckingham to her advantage, as he would surely be willing to aide her in any plot against Athos. After all, she had said she would find Athos, had she not?


	16. Spying & Dislocation

“I suppose you are wondering why I have called you here,” said Tréville as his gaze swept over Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan seated before him. Three looked back with almost bored stares while one peered up with curiosity.

“Captain, we have told you everything we know about those machines,” said Aramis tiredly, suspecting that this was the reason they were called. “There is nothing we know that you do not.” Athos’ eyes flicked from Aramis to Tréville, who was smiling slightly, and he frowned. It was different this time; D’Artagnan had never been invited to such a meeting before now.

“You are right, Aramis,” said Tréville slowly, pushing away from leaning on the front of his desk, turning around it, and seating himself. “There is no point in continuing to interrogate you about those ships when we cannot get close enough to learn any more. You four are here because the people of Paris are rioting—”

“They’re always rioting!” Porthos interjected. Tréville continued without acknowledging his words.

“And should this continue then the people will revolt against the King and the Queen in desperation. If this happens, Buckingham will have won.” The Gascon captain twined his fingers together before his face, eying the soldiers closely. D’Artagnan’s eyes suddenly lit with comprehension.

“You want us to find a way out to get food in!” he declared confidently. Tréville smiled behind his hands and nodded.

“Yes, that is what I am asking. I know it will be difficult to find a way that the damned English have not blocked—”

“They are not God,” said Porthos lightly with a grin, leaning back in his seat. Tréville glared at him.

“Porthos, I grow tired of your interruptions,” he stated firmly and the grin fell from the giant’s features as quickly as it had grown. Tréville opened his mouth to speak again when a lackey entered suddenly, very pale and with wide, surprised eyes, and the captain growled in irritation.

“What is it?” he demanded. “Speak knave!” The lackey stood taller but trembled under his master’s stern glare and spoke with a stammer.

“There is someone illustrious to see you, Monsieur,” said the young man. Tréville scoffed, waving his hand to dismiss him.

“I am in middle of something of great importance; tell whoever it is to return tomorrow,” said Tréville coldly.

“That is odd Tréville. You have never denied me an audience before,” said the King as the lackey hurried pulled back the rest of curtain which disguised the door. All the men in the room stood rapidly. Tréville’s chair toppled to the ground behind him while the man in question tried to rid his face of the contrite expression of having spoken thus to his sovereign. But Louis only smiled, and upon entering fully and seating himself in Tréville’s righted chair, nodded for his soldiers to sit again. Tréville, however, remained standing to Louis’s right and examined the young monarch closely. His face was still quite grey and a slight sweat had beaded on his forehead, but although it was indeed warm this day, he was dressed in a heavy suit made of fine wool and thick brocade.

“Have you informed them of their task yet, Tréville?” asked Louis. His voice was a little rougher than normal. Tréville shook his head.

“Not the details Sire, no. D’Artagnan guessed correctly that this was about the food shortage.” Louis nodded, turned his head to give a couple harsh coughs then regarded his elite men closely.

“We need you to find and implement a way to get food into the city for us all, as well as carry messages out to my brother d’Orléans at the very least.” Athos leaned forward with narrowed eyes. Porthos and Aramis shared a dark glance. Tréville looked stunned.

“Your Majesty is it wise to inform Monsieur about the siege?” the captain asked. Louis sighed and rested back in the chair.

“There is little else we can do, I’m afraid, Tréville. There are problems beyond these walls that cannot be attended to without his aide,” said Louis. “Some concessions will have to be made to him, but I am willing to do so. The last thing France needs is its countryside full of cocky Protestants!” The exclamation caused the King to cough hard enough to leave him gasping. Tréville went to grab the young man’s shoulder but restrained himself.

“Sire, are you well?” he asked instead as Louis pressed a hand against his chest and breathed slowly. Porthos looked left and right at his friends on either side of him, each of them sharing a worried glance as Louis struggled. Louis waved Tréville away as he straightened up, shaking his head slowly.

"I am fine," he said steadily, "But perhaps you should continue with the instructions for this, Tréville. I find myself quite parched." The elder Gascon nodded but the set frown on his features revealed that he was neither convinced nor relieved by the King's words.

"We shall do as you command, Your Majesty," said Athos lowly. "Rest assured that we will find a way." The others murmured similar assurances of their acceptance. Louis gave them a tired smile and clapped his hands together in a gesture of accomplishment.

"Well done! I knew I could count on your devotion to accept this task," he declared. "Now, have you any ideas to start with?"

"We will have to inspect the city walls," said Aramis thoughtfully, casting a side look to Athos, to which the other man nodded in approval, "Both the tops and bottoms to find a weakened, unguarded spot that English would not notice."

"But who would go through to do this?" asked Porthos, spreading his arms to demonstrate the enormity of the decision. "Who would be willing, able, and loyal enough?" All paused in thought as Porthos, in his usual habit, struck the heart of the true problem. D'Artagnan rose and walked to the window. While the others considered soldiers and noblemen, perhaps even bourgeois gentlemen, D'Artagnan was looking down into the street at the often most unnoticeable people in Paris as they played.

"The children..." he muttered, but not quite low enough to be heard only by himself.

"What was that, boy?" asked Athos. "What did you say?"

"I was thinking about the young children in the street below," said D'Artagnan, turning to face the older musketeer but pointing out the window. "How many of us ever take notice of the children running about? They would be small enough to get through a hole in the wall that would not be considered worth guarding, and with the promise of some coin or food for their family they would do anything we ask!"

"D’Artagnan that is ingenious!" said Louis excitedly.

"Well done, lad!" said Porthos, walking over and clapping him on the shoulder so hard his knees half-buckled. There were less exuberant congratulations from Athos, Aramis, and Tréville, all which made the young man blush with pride.

"I will provide the coin to offer to these children," said Louis. "And I suppose that some food they come back with can be given, but I will leave you four to figure this out amongst yourselves." The young monarch stood, but suddenly swayed and fell sideways towards Tréville, who unceremoniously caught him before he hit the ground. The three musketeers and guard bolted forward and surrounded the captain in a worried huddle.

“Aramis, find my surgeon, the King’s surgeon, any surgeon, and be quick about it!” Tréville bellowed and Aramis did not hesitate to leave. He did not even grab his hat off the back of the chair he had been sitting in.

“Athos, help me get him into the next room.” Athos grabbed hold of Louis’ feet, lifting the limp body with Tréville, and bearing him as gently as possible to another room where he could rest in a softer place than on the floor. Aramis arrived shortly thereafter, an older gentleman with grey tinged, brown hair puffing behind him and carrying a black bag. Everyone but Tréville was dismissed from the room, leaving the musketeers to speculate in his office about what had happened.

“His Majesty did not look well when he arrived,” said Aramis.

“He looked as tired as we do,” said Porthos with a frown.

“I will ask Constance, the next time I see her, if she has any idea at all as to what just happened,” said D’Artagnan.

The surgeon exited the room with Tréville following. The King was sick from exhaustion and needed peaceful rest in order to recover. If he did not rest then his weakness would only worsen. A lackey was summoned with the pull of a bell cord and sent down to the King’s carriage to direct it to the back of the Hôtel de Tréville. Porthos and Aramis were easily able to bear Louis down a set of back stairs, out of sight of all the musketeers within the hotel, and he was gently laid on a carriage seat. Tréville climbed in after him, along with the lackey, and directed the driver to take them a small door attached to the King’s wing so as not to start speculation in the court.

When he arrived, La Chesnaye helped Tréville carry the King into his chambers where they placed him on his bed and the valet began to remove his outer clothes down to his breeches and loose, flowing shirt. The door suddenly burst open behind them to reveal the Queen hastily entering, bunches of her skirts held in her hands so she had been able to run, her cheeks flushed a bright pink under her rouge, and a few curls loose from their pins. Tréville and La Chesnaye dropped into low bows to her but she moved to the King’s bedside without acknowledging them. Tréville sighed to himself. His measures had not been enough to hide Louis’ weakness from someone because they had obviously informed the Queen.

“What happened to my husband?” she demanded, looking at Tréville. “What is going on?”

“Your Majesty, he took ill and fainted after addressing my best musketeers about a mission he wished that they perform,” said Tréville. Anne bit her lips, taking Louis’ hand and pressing it with her own.

“A surgeon was summoned and declared that His Majesty is suffering from exhaustion and must rest,” continued the captain. The Queen sighed.

“He has been working so hard; trying to learn to govern a kingdom and take the place of Cardinal Richelieu is no easy task,” she said softly. “Please leave us. I will care for my husband.”

La Chesnaye and Tréville bowed once more then removed themselves from the room. Anne sat herself beside Louis’ head so she could brush her fingers along his forehead and face soothingly. His skin was hot to the touch, and fearing his fever she poured a pitcher of cool water into his wash basin, soaked her handkerchief, and cleaned his face of the beaded sweat. He groaned under her ministrations until his eyes fluttered open and stared at her without recognising her for a moment or two before the haze lifted.

“Anne? Where am I?” he asked weakly. She gave a relieved smile.

“You are in your chambers, my lord,” she said. “I am tending to your exhaustion.”

“I hope I did not frighten you,” he said, removing his hand from hers so he could take it again and stroke her knuckles with his thumb.

“As a matter of fact, you did,” she stated firmly, pinching her lips together. He sighed and coughed hard.

“Louis, you cannot continue these late nights,” she said. “I do not want to bury you.”

“I am only tired!” he argued, trying to sit up and flopping back down on his pillows.

“If you become any more tired, you will become sick!” she snapped back. She stood to leave, but not before folding her handkerchief into a long rectangle and draping it across his forehead.

“Please rest, Louis. I will come back soon,” she said, watching him as he nodded and took little time in closing his eyes and drifting off.

***

In the second floor lodging within the dingy house on Pont Notre-Dame, Orianne worked rapidly by the hearth to prepare the day’s breakfast for her mother and father. It never amounted to much; often it was cheese melted on the previous day’s baguette, sometimes there were the sweetmeats that her mother so loved.

“Watch that bread carefully else you’ll burn it, you clumsy fool!” said Loanne from the table. Rudolf yawned loudly, stretching out his legs. Orianne sighed tiredly, removed the bread, and set them on a plate. She placed the plate on the table before them and went to turn away when Rudolf reached up and grabbed her necklace.

“Where did you get this pretty trinket?” he asked in a low tone. She swallowed hard and tried to pull away to no avail.

“A friend gave it to me,” she said, trembling as her father stood to tower over her, his face becoming quite red.

“A friend you say?” He released the necklace but before she could move his fist struck her a terrible blow about the head. She yelped and fell to the ground with a cry. He grabbed the jewellery by the back of it and pulled. She gagged as it pressed into her throat and scrambled to her feet to relieve the pressure.

“Father, please,” she begged weakly.

“You have been entertaining men, you little whore!” he roared, grabbing her by the upper arm and whipping her around to face him. Her knees buckled with fear and she shrank before his very eyes. He could see her right eye was already beginning to puff up.

“Only one, father!” she said. “He is my friend!” Rudolf pounded his free fist on the table and suddenly slammed her against her door. There was an ear-splitting crack and Orianne slid down the wooden surface, crying, her fingers hovering over her right shoulder.

“How many times has he been in your bed? Answer me!” demanded the furious man in German. She flinched away when he tried to kick her, curling in on herself.

“Please no!” she cried. Rudolf smacked her harshly on the arm.

“Answer me!” he repeated, some spit dribbling on his chin.

“A few times, Papa,” Orianne blubbered. Loanne finally stood from her seat, having watched this interrogation with wide, angry eyes, and grabbed Orianne’s good arm to lift her to her feet. The young woman whimpered but her mother did not acknowledge it, opening the chamber door and shoving her in. Before closing the portal, however, she ripped the necklace from her throat, tearing the clasp.

“You can stay in here today and consider how unacceptable your behaviour was!” she declared and shut the door in her face. Orianne cried out, turned and wrenched the handle with her good hand, and pleaded for her release but no one answered her.

***

“Please no!” From the street below the apartment, Milady could hear the sounds of struggling and the rage of the young woman’s father. The shutters were wide open so the sound travelled easily, however, none attempted to intervene. It was a man’s right to discipline his daughter if she was behaving disgracefully. Milady cocked her head but could not catch the given answer to the man’s question.

“Oh Athos, it seems you have caused no end of trouble for your pretty little mistress,” Milady chuckled. She took her stick and tapped the ceiling of her carriage and it began to move. Athos had not appeared this morning, thus he would be visiting this day. Milady had to admit to herself that she was curious as to what Athos would do when he discovered the girl beaten black, blue, and perhaps bloody. She would return the next day and patiently wait for his arrival.

***

The night was cool as August was moving into September and Aramis crept slowly through the shadows cast within by the east walls of Paris, feeling every crevice of stone with his fingers for something loose, something crumbling. Above him, Athos kept a slow pace with him and scanned the smouldering fires that marked the English camps, seeking a point where they had not set up or, at least, were quite separated. This was their second night of searching. Attempting this search during the day would have ended in disaster because once they had found a suitable spot; every desperate Parisian would have swarmed them in an effort to leave. Porthos and D’Artagnan were doing the same as them but along the west wall, the former up top and the later creeping along the bottom. They had tried the north wall and eliminated the longest route around the city for the messengers to travel, and had hopefully tried the south wall, even scanning it twice with no luck, thus disposing of the quickest way to Orléans.

Aramis paused as he pressed a stone and it shifted easily beneath his fingertips. He marked it carefully with his eyes before stepping back beyond the shadows and into the moonlight to wave at Athos so he could mark their position on the upper wall. Half the night had already passed and the shadows were getting fewer and fewer with the moon’s rising passage. Athos turned his back to Aramis and examined the land beyond. There was a marked V shape were the English had not settled from the point, and Athos moved to the wall to peer straight down its surface to see why. The ground below appeared rough with stones, uncomfortable to sleep on and difficult to pitch a tent in. He heard Aramis give a pleased sound from below and blinked when he suddenly spotted his younger comrade looking up at him from beyond the wall, having passed his head through the hole but not his shoulders. Athos drew a dagger and scratched a large white X into the stone in front him before he descended a nearby stair to reach Aramis, who was extricating himself from the wall.

“This hole should suffice,” said Aramis lightly, dusting himself off. Next to the opening sat several broken stones. “They were so weak, all I had to do was push,” continued Aramis, seeing Athos’ looking at the small pile.

“The English do not camp here, as you probably saw, due to the rocks in the dirt,” said Athos with a frown. “We have to hide this else every Parisian will be tearing this wall apart to escape and will have nothing to return to as a result.” Together they crammed the hole full of the broken pieces of stone and crumbled mortar and returned the Hôtel de Tréville, their agreed rendezvous point, to await Porthos and D’Artagnan. The two musketeers did not have to wait too long. When their comrades arrived, the youth’s face was dejected and the giant’s frustrated.

“Paris is too perfect a prison!” Porthos said, stomping his feet on the cobbles and swearing. D’Artagnan nodded in agreement.

“We checked everywhere along that wall twice over and we found nowhere that would work.”

“Then I suppose it is lucky for you that we fared better,” said Athos, gesturing for them to follow. They were shown the newly blocked hole and Porthos sighed.

“We lost the bet then,” he yawned. “We will start seeking out children tomorrow. For now, I say we go home and sleep.”

“The King never gave us the coin to pay the children,” said Aramis. “We’ll have to tell Tréville what we found and then see the Queen to get the money.”

“We will do that in the morning,” said Athos tiredly. “Let’s head home.” They did just that and passed out in their beds until well beyond the morning. The four rose to Planchet’s meagre offerings of bread, sausage, and wine (which took little time to eat once shared amongst them) then headed for the Rue de Vieux-Columbier first and the Louvre second at half-past one. Aramis almost participated in a riot due to another man’s shoved response to his jostling him away from a stall in order to pass, but Athos grabbed his shoulder and steered them at a quick march from the market square. Children had gathered at every exit, catching the sleeves and capes and skirts and cloaks of passerby in hopes of begging for scraps, which were rarely given. D’Artagnan made note of this to himself for later when he and Porthos would be seeking such desperate youths for their mission. Tréville was quick to see them upon their arrival and accompanied them to the Louvre in hopes of hurrying an audience with the King, who was, surprisingly, dealing with affairs of State from his bed contrary to the will of his surgeon. They were subsequently provided with a receipt for the Treasury, along with much praise for swift pace they had taken in accomplishing the first task, and once the money was in their possession, it was divided equally into purses for Porthos and D’Artagnan.

While these two headed off to seek recruits and Aramis returned home, Athos made his way further to see Orianne, whom despite himself he had missed these past two days. A carriage rolled by him slowly, but he gave it little thought as he turned in to the cramped space and mounted the narrow stair to the second floor. He tried the door handle, having foregone knocking as he was always welcome, and found it stuck. It clicked mockingly under his hand and Athos frowned deeply. He raised his fist and pounded on the door.

“I am sorry, but we are not accepting any new commissions of work today. Please come back another day,” said Orianne weakly. Athos hit the door again with his fist.

“Orianne, are you well? Why is the door locked? Open up!” he demanded, but the door stayed closed.

“Athos, please, just come back later,” she pleaded, her voice slightly muffled sounding through the wood. 

“Orianne, if you do not open this door, I will break it down,” he threatened, his voice oddly booming in the narrow hallway. There was silence for a moment or two as she seemed to consider the two options.

“Leave! Leave right now!” she said suddenly. “You can’t come in.”

“You leave me no choice,” he growled. He took a step back and gave the door a sharp kick just beneath the handle. The panel gave a menacing crack and he narrowly missed breaking the rickety table that was behind him from the rebound. He was, after all, no Porthos.

"Stop, stop please!!" she cried out upon hearing his attack. "I'll unlock it, I will let you in! Please, just wait." She fumbled with the lock due to her trembling fingers for more than a minute before it unlatched and she opened the door for him. Athos walked in as the panel opened, doing so quickly to ensure that she would not change her mind and shut the door in his face. There was no such danger however, judging by the way she was holding herself. The musketeer frowned as he gazed at her in the semi-darkness of the room. The shutters were shut firmly and the only light came from where the wood had broken off them from the wind and other elements.

Orianne held herself awkwardly, slightly tottering on her feet and doing her best to keep her hair, which she usually tied behind her back with a ribbon, in front of her face. Athos had seen numerous wounded, being that he was a man of war, and her appearance rang alarm in his heart. He took a step towards her and rested a hand on her left arm, her right seeming to dangle limply by her side.

“What is this, why are you hiding your face like that? What happened?”

"N-Nothing happened Athos," she said, forcing a smile. Her swollen eye made it hard not to flinch in pain and her right shoulder felt like it had been touched by a burning torch. She carefully played with her hair to keep it in place over her eye and somewhat around her neck to hide the bruise from the necklace.

"Maman got some wine yesterday; I think there is some left. Would you like a cup?" she asked, hoping to distract him.

But Athos was not to be distracted. He determinedly reached to her hairline with his hand, despite her trying to pull away from him, and he pushed the strands of hair aside to reveal the black, purple and blue bruises that ran along her face. His eyes flashed and his ears turned crimson as he examined, mute, the damage along her jaw line and the fine thread on her throat, which was intermixed with larger blue spots along. The necklace!

“Sangdieu,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper from containing his rage. “Did your parents do this to you?”

Seeing him so angry, Orianne’s facade crumbled before him and she told him all between high, emotional gasps; how her father had noticed the necklace and how he had struck her for inviting Athos in; how he had called her horrid things when she told him that Athos had slept in her bed. She tried to wipe her sore, streaming eyes and her nose with one hand but there were too much for her sleeve to handle without spreading it all over her face. He listened to her mutely, resisting the urge to storm out the door to find the worthless drunk she called father and pound his face until it was nothing but pulp. Instead, he somewhat awkwardly took his handkerchief out and wiped her cheeks and nose with it, then put his hands on her shoulders to pull her in his arms. It did not take her long to bury herself in his embrace, sniffling into his doublet without care or qualm. She was too scared to bother with dignity and obedience any longer.

"I did not know they would be so angry with me!" she wept and hiccupped, beating her fist against his chest in a weak spasm. "I only wanted a friend. That is all I wanted."

Athos felt a twinge of guilt at her words. It was entirely his fault that she suffered through this ordeal. He had grown careless, and she, with her innocence, could not know what gifts like the one he had given her could mean. He allowed her to cry all she wanted against his chest, and when her hiccups subsided, he gently pushed on her shoulders to look at her face.

“There now, Orianne…”

He froze as the colour suddenly drained out completely from her face and she uttered a yelp that was not unlike the cry of a puppy. He felt an odd heat under the palm of his left hand. He pressed her right shoulder again and she nearly cried out. Bewildered, and perhaps ten times as angry as earlier, he led her to a chair.

“What happened, Orianne? Your shoulder is dislocated from its joint. How did this happen?”

She chuckled lowly and gave him a very strange smile, full of cold irony and bitter feeling, before she looked to the slight amount of floor between them, the expression gone from her features.

"Papa threw me into the door," here she paused and tipped her head to her chamber's portal; "because I let you sleep in my bed." Bells chimed in the distance. She leaned back in her chair, angling her body to keep her weight on her left side.

He shuddered. Had Orianne hit the door just a few inches to the left, she might have broken her neck. A slap in the face, a punch to the jaw, he could perhaps somewhat understand, but this went beyond the limit. He wiped along his face with his hand, trying to clear the heat from his mind to think more clearly. Only one solution presented itself to him, and there came no doubt that it was the only one possible. He knelt in front of her and slightly raised the wounded arm in his left hand.

“I’m going to have to reset it into place, and it is going to hurt, I’m afraid.”

Orianne tilted her head, attempting a proper smile but it looked twisted due to her bruised face. She did not hold it long as it caused her pain and she shuffled forward until she was on the edge of the chair.

"Do what must be done, Athos," she said. "I will not scream; I promise."

“I’m going to count to three, and then I’ll do it,” he said, gently touching her cheek. When she nodded, he raised her right arm a little more and firmly set his other hand in the crook formed, preparing himself.

“Here goes. One… Two…” CLUNK!

Orianne did not manage to keep her promise for a brief moment before she clapped her good hand to her mouth to stifle the sound, gasping for air from the shock. Her fingers tingled with regaining feeling and were near to impossible to curl from stiffness. Sweat beaded on her forehead and paled cheeks, and when she pulled her hand away there was a trace of blood on her fingers from biting her lip.

"T-thank you," she managed to stammer, shivering. "You will p-probably want to go now. The bells say it is the time you usually leave."

He shook his head and gave her his handkerchief to wipe the blood with, and then stood, looking around him for a moment.

“Do you have a chest or a trunk somewhere?”

She nodded, lips parting as she narrowed her one eye with confusion, as the other was already tightly closed. She pointed to her chamber.

"There is a valise in there, under the bed. Why do you ask?"

He didn’t respond and walked into the minuscule room, rummaged under the bed, and found the old trunk. It looked ready to fall apart but he unlatched it all the same, and resumed looking about him.

“What in this room belongs to you?”

Orianne stood and entered the room as well, looking about with a frown. The corners were piled with trinkets and pieces that her mother had found and forgotten to do anything with. It was dusty and dirty and cramped beyond measure between these piles, the bed, and the armoire with a cracked door.

"My other dress in there," she pointed to the armoire; "and the box of dyes under the bed..."

As she spoke, he grabbed the designated objects and stuffed them in the trunk, albeit a little more delicately when it came to the dress.

“Is there anything else?”

She nodded and moved to the end of her bed, taking the footboard in one hand and pulling the furniture aside. The feet scraped the floor roughly where a line had been formed before showing this had been moved several times prior. She knelt down, counting with a pointing finger until she reached a specific piece of wood in the floor where she dug her nails into a crack and pulled. The wood came free in her hand and she reached into the little hole to come back with a small purse, its colour faded from the dust covering it.

"Sometimes, the people who would come would give me a little extra money," she explained hurriedly, holding the purse close to her chest. "I did not steal it!"

He nodded and simply took the small purse from her hands and secured it tightly to the leather pouch he wore at his belt.

“This is still yours. I’m just putting it here for now so that it doesn’t get stolen,” he explained. “Have you any other possessions at all in here?”

He couldn’t believe just how little she owned. She shook her head negatively and stood, brushing off her skirt.

"My cloak by the door, but beyond that no, I have nothing else," she said simply. "Why are you packing my things? We are not moving again."

“They aren’t, but you are,” he stated firmly, taking the cloak off its peg and draping it about her frame before securing it at her neck with the strings.

"What? No, no, I can't!" she declared, not realising he had already led them both out the door and they stood at the stairs. "They will be furious with me. I cannot leave!" The street below was crowded with people and half blocked by a carriage but this did not stop them joining the river of bodies, Athos' hand firmly on her arm and guiding her away despite her continued protests.

"Athos please let me go! I have to back!" she said, whimpering a little with fear.

“I’m sorry, Orianne, but I cannot chance something like this happening to you again,” he retorted, putting his hand to the small of her back to encourage her forward. “One, I would never forgive myself and two… Your brother would kill me.”

He walked up the few steps that led to his and his friends’ lodgings and opened the door, gently but firmly ushering her inside before she could make any other attempt at turning back.

“Well, this is your new home!”


	17. Exchanges & Imprudence

Milady’s carriage rolled swiftly along the bumpy cobblestone street, its passenger quite content with herself. She played her fingers on the pommel of her walking stick, tracing the rippling design in the gold and chuckling slyly to herself. Now that Athos had made such a move as kidnapping the young woman he was so interested in, it made her plans much easier as he would suffer right away when, not if, she went missing. For now, her plot was to be put aside in favour of her visit to the Cardinal to deliver Buckingham’s positive response to Richelieu’s treaty conditions, which she had neglected doing for quite some time now.

The Palais Cardinal rose before them and the vehicle was directed to a tiny door on the opposite side, far from the prying eyes of the King’s musketeers. She took the hand of her driver as she stepped down from the carriage and then proceeded inside alone, hearing the man whip the horses into movement behind her and lead them away. She crept along, her heels tapping a steady rhythm on the stone, and turned left into what looked like a dead end. Instead of turning back, she pressed against a pale block and the wall shifted under her touch, swinging open into Richelieu’s private antechamber. No guards were stationed here; they were instead posted just outside in the hall leading to this room. Milady slipped past the swinging wall and watched it slide back into place before she brushed her skirts lightly to remove some light dust from her travels and knocked on Richelieu’s bed chamber door. There was a permissive call from beyond and she entered, dipping into a respectful curtsey on the other side.

“Milady, it is about time you returned,” said Richelieu with mild annoyance. He was dressed in his shirt sleeves, black breeches, and boots. A sheath hung from a baldric on his left hip and a slight perspiration dotted his brow. A space had been cleared of furniture; a table and chairs were moved closer the left wall between his bed and personal desk. There was no one else in the room besides the two of them. Milady allowed herself a quick hint of a smirk. _He has been duelling his shadow for amusement_.

“I apologise, Your Eminence, but I was delayed by the rioters. It is hard to re-enter the city when they wait in swarms just beyond the gates,” said Milady calmly, drawing closer. She crooked her elbow up and gestured down with her hand towards the blade in his.

“Am I interrupting another close game, Your Eminence?” Richelieu sheathed the sword and marched over to a high-backed chair and sat. Milady followed and did the same, watching him from across the table. It was quite obvious that Richelieu was growing very bored and very desperate, trapped within the walls of his palace.

“I do not keep you as a spy for you to mock me, Milady,” said Richelieu firmly. “What news from Buckingham?”

“He has agreed to your terms,” she said gently. “He will give you all the time you require.”

“And I suspect he asked that you find out why, I suppose?” said the Cardinal snidely. Milady did not respond and instead played with the corners of some papers on his desk.

“You seem like you are bored,” stated Milady calmly. Richelieu had drawn his blade once more and was examining it in his hand.

“My mind is hardly as occupied as I am used to, but I am managing,” he said, thrusting his sword forward.

“Perhaps I could help?” she asked demurely, taking another blade from a mounted wall display. For a man of the Church, he had more weapons that most soldiers. Richelieu’s brow lifted in doubt as he leaned on the point of his sword.

“How do you propose do that, pray tell, Milady?” he asked before immediately guarding himself against her as she spun towards him, the steel in her hand flashing reflected spots of candle light on the walls, and their swords connected with a rippling clang. She drove him back pace by pace in his shock until the Cardinal found the back of his legs brushing a chair. He hopped up onto the seat and stepped on the backing, staggering off the furniture when it toppled backward but effectively put space between the two of them. He thrust forward as she came closer and pushed roughly against her parry to send her stumbling onto a low canapé. She leapt up and they clashed again. She twisted her sword clockwise around his and drove the tip towards him only for Richelieu to suddenly dislodge himself from her parry, pulling his blade down and out then slipping back up through her guarded hilt, jerking it swiftly from her hand. She ran for the wall to take another weapon, a lengthy and top heavy halberd, and used the pole to block Richelieu’s attack with his two blades. She shoved him off and swung the axe portion towards him missing him and, instead, sending a vase flying from the table and smashing to pieces on the floor. He dashed towards his bed as she turned and charged, piercing and tearing the red curtains. She plunged forward with the spear again and he chopped at the head, the steel connecting with a sharp ring, and sent the weapon’s tip into the floor. The pole came up and caught her under the chin as it flicked up into the canopy, knocking her down. He clambered over the bed on foot but tripped as his heels tangled in the sheets. His swords passed over her as she rolled away, grabbing one of his fallen weapons. Again, she rose to meet him. He flung the tangled and torn sheet into her face and went to attack when the door opened and revealed Father Joseph. Richelieu and Milady stared at him, panting and damp with sweat, not truly seeing him.

“Monseigneur, I bring you news of yours plans,” said the Grey Eminence slowly, regarding Milady with a wary, untrusting eye. Richelieu tossed aside his sword, walked to his desk, and drew from a secret drawer a pouch of coins. He gave these to Milady.

“Payment for your service,” he said dismissively. Her expression soured slightly but she said nothing as she took the money and left the room. Father Joseph closed the door immediately behind her.  They waited a few moments before speaking freely.

“You say you have news?” said Richelieu, pulling a handkerchief to mop his forehead. Father Joseph stood up the fallen chair with a sigh, his bushy grey beard obscuring his frown.

“I do, Your Eminence,” he said quietly.

“You need not by so suspicious. She is one of my creatures,” said the Cardinal with a half-smirk. “She will not betray me. She knows the consequences.”

“She failed you before,” Father Joseph reminded cautiously.

“That was because of those damned Inseparables. They know nothing of what is happening. Besides, they shall be dealt with in good time. Now, what is this news you bring?”

Richelieu waited with a slight impatience as Father Joseph glanced sharply at the door. Had a shadow just passed underneath? Had he something, or someone, tap against it? He shook his head, pushing away the suspicions.

“Only the air sacs need to be filled, Your Eminence, and some final supplies and fire power brought aboard. Then, they will be ready.” Richelieu seated himself in the chair behind his desk with an easy smile.

“Excellent. Continue to direct the preparations and be sure to instruct De Cavoie on their use. As my Captain, he should know of all the weapons at his disposal.”

In the hall beyond, Milady took the glass she held against her ear away from the thick carved door panel and set it back on the tray from the Cardinal’s midday meal. This was an interesting development and Buckingham was employing her to find out such developments. Instead, she smiled and decided that, for now, it would be better to hold such information back. It could serve her well for bargaining in the future, and it would not do to not see how this whole siege mess would play out. She slipped quickly and silently away from the door and back to the passage that had brought her here, closing it off just as Father Joseph was leaving Richelieu’s office. They would be none the wiser to her knowledge of their plans.

***

Darkness descended over Paris, along with much of the silence that came with it, but in an east quarter of Paris there was bustling activity before a seemingly simple wall. A mass of children spilling down the street stirred and pushed each other and whispered amongst them, all darkly dressed in relatively clean clothes and each carrying a sack of some sort. Athos sighed as he fingered a letter tucked in his sleeve, which carried the plea for aide from the King’s younger, troublesome brother.

“Were you able to get any older children at all?” he demanded of Porthos, “We cannot send simple youths to Monsieur. We need someone who looks old enough to be a page, at the very least.”

“Athos, it was hard enough getting their mothers to agree to this already,” Porthos said, annoyed, “You expect us to take away the older ones from their fathers too? Most of the youths who would be willing were already working!”

Athos growled and turned away to look at the hole as Aramis, in that steady tone of his that so appealed to parishioners, began to instruct the boys (because the crowd of children was made of male children) in what they were to do once outside the walls.

“You will not pull any tricks on the English, or better yet, go near them at all,” said Aramis slowly, drawing out this point. “Head for the farms, avoid the soldiers, and ask for whatever they can spare.”

The boys were quiet, dozens of determined eyes, sparking with the heroic desire, stared at Aramis attentively. The priestly man continued speaking; Porthos scratched his head as he tried to read a list of names in the semi-darkness, and D’Artagnan waited on the other side of the wall, crouched in the dirt. Athos could see his boots through the hole.

“You well, boy?” he asked, crouching down to see him better. D’Artagnan turned to face him with a frown.

“Athos, I just thought of something. Should we not cover this spot from this side as well?”

“With what?” asked the older musketeer, “you think you can dig out a bush right now and plant it with your bare hands?” D’Artagnan went to protest but Athos cut him off. “Get back in here before you do something reckless.”

The Gascon slithered back inside the city with a sigh, the stones brushing against even his small frame as he passed through. Athos helped pull him to his feet as Aramis finished his speech to the children. Porthos handed D’Artagnan the list. 

“See if you can read this any better!” he said in a great huff. There was bunch of activity at once as the boys shuffled forward in a masse and D’Artagnan struggled to hear the separate voices all telling him their names and mark down that they were out. Aramis and Porthos did their best to form them into an easier-to-manage line while Athos gave each a _louis_ _d’or_ from the King’s purse before they crawled out the hole. The whole process took two hours, the bells from Notre Dame in the distance made sure they knew, and the four of them regarded each other, drained from the effort of dealing with all the little Frenchmen.

“There were none who could go to d’Orléans,” Athos stated.

“No, there were not,” agreed Aramis.

“Someone has got to go,” said Porthos, hands resting on his hips. D’Artagnan looked to each of them quietly, watching their shadowed faces pinch in thought. Athos’ was the first to turn solemn.

“I will,” he said lowly. Aramis looked at him, surprised.

“And what do we tell your new charge?” he asked, a smile tickling the corners of his lips. “What should we say to her when you are not home tomorrow?” Athos glared at him suddenly.

“I am doing my duty. That is all she needs to be aware of.” He moved towards the hole, drew a dagger, and carefully began to attack the mortar holding the other stones in order to widen the hole. D’Artagnan joined him while Porthos heaved the blocks aside until the hole seemed large enough. Aramis tested it by slipping through then Athos tried and found he was unable to go forward or back. Aramis smirked above him.

“Stuck, Athos?” he teased gently. Athos growled, dug his fingers into the rocky soil and tried to pull by the strength of his arms and shoulders alone without success. He had removed his baldric, his sword, and his jerkin, but it had not been enough. The previous year of inactivity, constant drinking, and self-pity had certainly affected him more than he had thought. Athos felt boots near his waist and heard scratching as one of his companions began to cut away other block.

“Hold on, Athos,” said D’Artagnan, his voice tight with laughter, “We will get you free.” The older man’s face coloured but the night made it hard to tell. Aramis kept watch, slowly sweeping his gaze from left to right, right to left, constantly scanning. Occasionally he looked down at Athos, who had folded his arms in front of him and rested his chin on them, and tried not to laugh. Meanwhile, Athos was deep in thought, remembering his actions earlier in the day.

_“Athos, who is this with you,” asked Aramis as his older friend entered the central area of the lodging following a raggedly cloaked figure. Looking closer, Aramis realised that Athos’ companion was, to his great surprise, a woman. Turning back to Athos, he noticed that he carried a heavily battered valise under his arm._

_“Orianne cannot stay with her parents any longer,” stated Athos coldly, “If she does, she will likely be killed.” Aramis appeared confused for a moment before Athos reached for the back of the woman’s hood and pulled it down roughly to reveal Orianne’s frightened and bruised features. He could now understand why Athos looked as grim as he did, more so than was usual for the sombre man._

_“But, you do realise we have no room as is?” questioned the priestly man. “Planchet is still sleeping on the balcony and will have to be brought inside soon to avoid the cold.”_

_“She will sleep in my room,” said Athos simply, already placing Orianne’s things in said chamber. Aramis raised a brow._

_“And you will sleep...”_

_“I will be here by the fire,” said Athos, narrowing his eyes._

_“Planchet will keep you up all night with his snoring. He rivals Porthos; I can hear them both through my window,” said Aramis with a chuckle._

_“That does not concern me,” said Athos. Orianne watched mutely for the whole of the discussion, turning her head to view each man as they spoke._

_“I could always go back,” she mumbled but silenced herself when Athos glared at her._

_“You will do no such thing,” said Aramis. “Athos is right. Given the state of you, it is surprising you have survived these years of violence.” Athos directed Orianne, with surprising gentleness, into his room, and let her wander and examine the small space. He heard the front door below open and shut, and there was the sound of puffing breath as Planchet climbed the stairs._

_“Planchet, you will have to make meals for six from now on,” said Aramis. Planchet groaned, his shoulders sagging._

_“Six, Monsieur? But we barely have enough for you lot and my scraps!”_

_“Are you complaining Planchet?” asked Aramis. “Perhaps you would care to search for other employment?”_

_“No Monsieur, not at all,” There was a shuffle as Planchet did something quickly and rapid steps as he left again. The stairs leading up to his friends’ rooms creaked as Aramis ascended them, and the two of them were left alone._

_“I hope it will be enough for you,” said Athos, feeling slightly awkward. Orianne nodded silently, sitting down slowly on the edge of the bed. He approached and sat next to her, folding his hands together._

_“They will not find you here, nor would they ever expect you to hide so close,” he said lowly, trying to reassure her. She wrapped her arms about her as if touched by a chill and stared blankly at the wall. Athos sighed and stood._

_“If you want, try to get some sleep. I can expect your shoulder made it difficult for you before,” he said, holding the handle of the door. He watched her shuffle up until she was able to place her head on the pillow, and he closed the door with this image in his mind._

“Athos, are you alright?” D’Artagnan’s voice interrupted his thoughts and Athos gave a quick start in his undignified position. He could hear his friends laughing on the other side of the wall.

“You’re free now, you old wine sack!” declared Porthos, tapping the sole of Athos’ boot with his toe. “Stop lying there and get on to Orléans.” Aramis offered his hand to help Athos to his feet once through, unable to hide a smile. Athos examined him a moment, but, unable to decipher the meaning of the one-time priest’s expression, he chose to ignore him.

“Come back in one piece,” said Aramis.

“We will keep an eye on your little mistress, never you fear,” said Porthos. Aramis shook his head and gave Athos’ shoulder an unexpected pat.

“He means well; he can just never say things properly.”

“Don’t try to be a hero,” called D’Artagnan with a laugh. Athos crouched down by the hole with a slight smirk.

“Do I look like you, boy?” Aramis chuckled as the young Gascon huffed. He watched as Athos stood, turned, and slid along the wall into neighbouring bushes to begin his trip across the countryside on foot (at least until he could get himself a horse a safe distance away from the English camps). Aramis then ducked back through the opening and helped his friends patch it up until they would reopen it in the morning to admit the returning children.

***

It was just before dawn when Athos arrived, dusty and worn, at Orléans. Despite his rather disgraceful appearance, the urgency in his voice gained him passage into the château of Monsieur, the king’s younger brother, and an audience in the duke’s elaborate office. Athos, however, did not expect a warm welcome as no one, most of all young men, liked being woken so early. The musketeer waited patiently for quite some time before a freshly dressed, but barely groomed, Gaston d’Orléans entered. His rather pointed, but youthful, face, decorated with an incredibly narrow mustache above his lip, was pinched with annoyance and his curly brown hair slightly askew from the ribbon it had been tied back with. All in all, the young duke gave no appearance of being pleased to see one of his brother’s dusty soldiers standing before him.

“The King obviously sent you,” said d’Orléans shortly. “What does my brother want this time, to exile me further away from court?” **(1)** Athos shook his head and bowed as he drew forth the letter from Louis.

“This is from His Majesty to you, Monsieur,” said Athos.

“You have yet to tell me who _you_ are,” stated the younger man.

“I was once called the Comte de la Fere, Monsieur, but now I am known as Athos.” D’Orléans paused, the letter half open in his hand as he heard these words, looking over the soldier with a more appraising eye and an accepting nod. He seemed pleased with the fact that one of the Inseparables had been sent to him as a messenger.

“So the King is in need of my help,” said the duke with a smirk upon finally opening and reading the letter. “I have seen these machines that he has mentioned; they appear to be very effective.”

“They are, Monsieur,” stated Athos, rising back to standing. “Paris is starving.”

“Paris is not my concern, Monsieur Soldier. Leave such problems to the vain King and his master Richelieu,” sneered d’Orléans, sipping from the wine he had served himself.

“Richelieu is no longer in control. His Majesty has taken hold of the France’s reins,” said Athos coldly.

“One can never say that his musketeers are not loyal to him to a fault,” said Orléans. “But I still do not see what this has anything to do with me, nor is it possible to see how I can assist.”

“Monsieur, if Buckingham should defeat Paris and capture His Majesty then who is to say that the English duke will not come after you?” said Athos slowly. D’Orléans eyed him haughtily and stood straighter, though he was not particularly tall compared to Athos due to his youth.

“He would not dare come after me!” declared the angered young man. Athos shrugged but said nothing further.

“Wait here.” D’Orléans left the room for several minutes, and when he returned he was bearing a new sealed letter.

“Return to the King and give this to him. This is my response,” said the duke. Athos bowed once more and accepted the new burden silently then left just as quietly, knowing instinctively that he had been dismissed. His return to Paris was nowhere near as smooth as leaving. It was full morning when he arrived close to the English camp on foot once more; having parted with the horse at the last farm house he had passed. There was naught Athos could do until nightfall, so he hid himself in copse of trees and curled up in some roots under his cloak in order to catch some sleep. He was lightly dozing when voices grew louder near him and a party of four Englishmen entered the trees, laughing and talking. Athos did his best to circle around his tree to avoid them, but a brittle twig snapped under his boot and suddenly, he found himself frozen, staring at his enemies and they staring back at him. After a couple of moments, they went for their swords at their hips and he drew his just as quickly, charging forth to meet the first oncoming man and quickly driving the steel through his flesh then knocking him off the blade in order to attack the next soldier. The two others were circling around behind him; he could hear their clumsy footsteps, their low, dull voices. Athos whipped his blade through the air with purpose, aiming low and slicing open his opponent’s knee before spinning to fend off the surprise attack. His cloak was still in hand; he flung it around one of the swords and jerked it away then thrust forward in a parry against the other and striking his arm. The last Englishman took up his comrade’s blade and proceeded to strike wildly at Athos, forcing him to focus more. He felt a sharp sting as his forearm was cut through his clothes then drove forward purposefully, pulling up for his line suddenly to pink the man’s throat. The cut was shallow; naught but a distraction, and it was all Athos needed to escape. But it would be another day before he could return to the wall hole and the city proper to deliver the letter, something which aggravated him to no end, and he hated having to hide like a common thief.

His return was welcomed heartily by Porthos, who was guarding the hole that night when Athos crawled back through it, and it was hard to get away from the giant as he wanted to know details of what had taken so long. Athos had no wish to tell him that he had been discovered so easily and had acted so impulsively, and thus said nothing on the matter, bidding his friend a farewell until the morning. One more night (in which to get some proper sleep) could do no harm, which was Athos’ justification, and he returned to his shared lodging as his feet began to drag on the cobblestones. He collapsed in his usual chair without a care about the sore neck he would have in a few hours, glad to be finally off his feet. He did, however, somewhat notice someone draping a blanket over him gently and creeping away far too quietly to be one of his comrades, at least until they tripped on the protruding bench seat.

**(1) Actually, from what I read on good old Wikipedia, Gaston d’Orléans seemed to prefer his château in Blois, but for my sake, he is in Orléans. What is the point of being a historical writer if you cannot change a little thing like this now and again?**


	18. Menace & Manipulate

Meanwhile, over the passing three days, Athos was not the sole person occupied with Orianne’s welfare, when Loanne and Rudolf found themselves returning home the day of her escape with nothing to be found of their youngest child’s presence. They stomped around, shouting her name as if this alone would make her appear from the air, and when she did not they became furious.

“How dare she leave without my permission?” demanded Loanne, glaring at Rudolf as if _he_ had been the one to allow their daughter leave.

“You have not taught her obedience, obviously,” spat Rudolf, glaring back at his short, plump wife. “Should you not be out in the streets trying to find her by now?”

“And what of you, you wretched lazy toad?” she asked with a snarl, “Going to leave me to do all the legwork once again I see?” Rudolf sat himself down and rummaged in Loanne’s basket on the table, withdrawing a plum and taking a large bite from its juicy flesh.

“You are her father! She is your property, and you have let run off like some harlot!” she began to screech, stomping her foot hard on the floor. Rudolf threw the plum at her and Loanne yelped, turning her hip in the fruit’s direction and shielding her face.

“You, too, are my property woman!” roared the angered German. He lashed out and flipped over a short table, spilling the contents of candleholders and trinkets, all of which clattered, rolled, or smashed on the floor. “You will not talk to me this way!”

“ _Vertuchou,_ I will talk to you how ever I choose,” she hissed, her faded brown hair coming free from under her coiffe and dangling on her forehead. “You are a weak, useless foreigner, and I do not know why I ever wed you!” Rudolf’s dark face coloured with held back anger and he glared at her a moment longer before storming out, violently slamming the door behind him, and leaving her to clean up his mess. His feet took him down the street away from his haunt at the Pomme du Pin and he knocked against a gentleman larger than himself with a sole earring and such short hair that it was fuzz on his head.

“Watch yourself!” said the man, turning to face him with such a blustering indignation that it looked slightly ridiculous. Rudolf spat on the cobbles at his feet, muttering some brief curses as he walked away, leaving the giant to stand there confused and volatile.

“Where are you, damn idiot child,” he said lowly, looking around as he walked. “Orianne, come out right now!” Of course, no one came at his call. _Orianne, what a ridiculous name; so stupid and French_ , he thought, calling again in an empty square. The sun was setting; searching would be pointless as he would not be able to see. He passed the home where he knew some of the King’s _elite_ soldiers lived. Above him, he could hear the men within laughing, probably warm, full of food, and happy. Upon arriving two doors down, he looked up to see the shadows from the shutters on the whitewashed building and dark window openings, and he sighed. _I never should have eloped with that woman_.

The second day of searching (if one could call it that) was as fruitful as the first, which to say not at all. Loanne asked their neighbours if they had seen Orianne, but all responded negatively. At the house where the musketeers lodged, she had asked the youngest of them a few questions, and although he could not look her in the eye he answered in much the same way. No one in the area seemed to have seen the young dumb woman, and this infuriated Loanne further. How could no one have seen the obviously too tall, far too nervous girl wandering the street?

Rudolf had no better luck than his wife, having perhaps a worse day because he had to deal with their landlord coming to seek the rent, which they did not have. The man was, however, sympathetic to their plight, gesturing out the window towards the floating ships, but he did expect the money soon, and by soon he meant no less than a week. There was little that could be done to help them in this situation if they did not find Orianne soon. What few commissions she had completely before her sudden departure were dealt with and there were still a few strands of lace that could be sold, but with the chaos occurring almost daily in the city now, luxuries were far from the people’s minds as they struggled for their morning bread. He had little other skills besides cooking, and why would any noble house hire someone to cook for them when food was growing scarce? It was one less mouth to provide for.

When Loanne was told about the rent, she became quiet and looked just a little frightened. Although they had moved constantly to escape Rudolf’s violent reputation, they had never yet been evicted and this idea of truly having nowhere to go in such a city the size of Paris scared her. He gave her little reassurance as he drank his wine and later collapsed in his bed, his snores rumbling through his loose lips.

The third day, the day when Athos finally returned home, was the day that Loanne and Rudolf attempted to go to the police. The musketeers were too high up to be bothered with something like a missing peasant, and even the guards were not worth troubling. But the police were of little help as well. Petty thieving was already common in large cities, but now it was growing more violent with the mounting desperation.

“Monsieur, you must find our daughter. We came home three days ago and she was nowhere to be found. None of the neighbours have seen her,” said Loanne worriedly. Rudolf stood silently behind her. The gentleman looked at them both and shook his head.

“Madame, I am sorry, but if she has been missing so long then there is little chance we will find her by now. Was she a fair young woman?” he asked. The two parents shot each other a brief side glance.

“Yes, I suppose one could say that,” growled Rudolf. The man shrugged.

“Then one could assume that she is, by now, a wife. A pretty young thing is bound to be drawn in by someone and led to elope.”

“No, she cannot have! She is too loyal to us!” cried the angry mother, her brown eyes wide, popping spheres.

“Madame, there is nothing we can do! We do not have time to go chasing after stray daughters such as yours. If that was all we did, we would never have a moment’s rest!” Rudolf’s hand shot forward and grabbed the man’s collar roughly.

“Listen, we want her found and we want you to get started on this—”

“Monsieur, unhand me this minute or I will have you arrested!” Loanne tugged on her husband’s arm, making him release his grip and they left quickly so as not to instigate any further action.

“We need her back and soon,” said Loanne sharply. “The rent needs to be paid and food is not cheap.” Rudolf pressed the fingers of his one hand to his forehead gently, stretching and pinching the skin as he lengthened and shortened the reach of his digits.

“I realise this, Loanne,” he said slowly. “But if we should find her, I will ensure she knows what an idiot she truly is.”

***

“Now, Orianne, we have to go out for the day,” said Aramis, “and we will be back in time for dinner.” The young woman nodded mutely.

“Try not to fall in the fire,” warned D’Artagnan, recalling a moment two days prior where Orianne’s skirt had caught the flames a little when she stumbled over some of Planchet’s badly stacked firewood. She nodded again, hands folded demurely on her lap. The young Gascon felt Athos’ sharp questioning look on him at this remark; they had not told Athos any of the troubles that had occurred over the three days of his absence, mostly accidents such as the one warned about, a dye spill that had left a large purple blotch on one of the benches, and a disaster of trying to help Planchet with dinner and making it quite inedible.

“And _morbleu_ , you need to learn to relax!” exclaimed Porthos, buttoning his doublet. “We’re not going to hurt you.” Her eyes were large and round as she nodded once more. The three departed, leaving Athos and Orianne alone a moment, save for Planchet clearing away the breakfast dishes.

“How are you?” Athos asked somewhat awkwardly. She tried to smile but her face was still tender from her beating.

“Well as can be expected,” she replied softly.

“Try not to fear. You are among friends,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Nothing will happen to you here, I promise.” She reached up to gently brush the back of his hand with her fingertips before placing them back in her lap quickly. He frowned and reached forward, lifting her chin with two of his fingers.

“Oh, and do try to look up a little more, and smile. You’re prettier when you do.” She did smile but she blushed too and avoided looking him in the eyes. She had been doing this since earlier in the morning when another accident had occurred. Athos sighed and, unsure what to say to ease her embarrassment (and his own as he, too, remembered quite clearly the events of that morning), he put on his hat and silently left. When he had gone, she sighed, pressing her cool hands to her cheeks to try and diminish the growing blush as she vividly recalled that moment this morning.

_The sun rose high, but later than usual; an indication of the changing season. The four were due to report their progress to the King later, thus they were awake at this early hour, washing up and filling their stomachs. All except for Athos who had been held up due to sharing his room with Orianne, and was only now changing from his travelling clothes. Suddenly, in the middle of eating the porridge (they were a little short on money again), Orianne realised she forgot her dyes in Athos’ room, and had planned to use them this day, so she leapt to her feet and went to retrieve them._

_“Orianne, maybe you should wait,” Aramis had warned. She just shook her head._

_“I will forget later. I always do. I am hopeless with remembering anything well. Besides, it does not take too long to wash, does it?” Thus, she ignored the attempted warning and entered the bed chamber, closing the door behind her on an ingrained habit._

_“Orianne?” she turned to Athos and then froze, looking him up and down in shock. He was watching her reflection standing him behind him in his shaving mirror. The reason for this shared awkwardness was his evident lack of clothing. There was a cloth in his hand; he had still been washing. They stayed this way for a few moments before Athos truly realised how embarrassing this was for the both of them; there was then a flurry of movement as he tried to reach for his clean breeches without revealing himself and she backed up against the door, fumbling for the latch._

_“Orianne, wait,” he said, trying to tie the breeches quickly and the strings slipping through his fingers, “just close your eyes and stay there.” For the first time, she did not listen. She finally realised that to open the door, she had to step away from it. She opened the door and fled, crashing into Aramis and send them both sprawling on the floor, her on top of him. She was stunned briefly before she squeaked and climbed off the man, scrambling for the stairs and climbing them with her hands and feet. Athos called her name as he came from his room but she did not stop until she reached the end of the upper hall where Porthos’ & Aramis’ rooms were, and curled into a quivering ball in the corner frightened and embarrassed. _

Orianne shook her head but the blush remained strong on her cheeks. D’Artagnan had been sent up after her, as Athos would not go and Aramis could not go while he was nursing his head after hitting it on the floor, and it had taken him a full ten minutes to talk her out of the corner. It was not as if she had never seen a naked man before; she had walked in on her brother or her father on occasion when she was younger. It was just that neither had drawn her attention so thoroughly nor had sparked such an odd and overwhelming feeling of warmth deep in her belly. Besides, now she knew her observations from before were accurate: he really did have strong legs. She started when a hand touched her shoulder and looked up at Planchet.

“I have to go to the market. You’ll be alright here? Monsieur Athos would kill me if you weren’t.”

“Yes, Monsieur Planchet,” she said. She did not agree with how the men treated the servant, despite their explanations that this is how servants were treated. He smiled at her, took his basket, and left. She sat there a little longer, listening to the fire crackle in the hearth, before she stood and decided to explore. She had not seen the whole of the lodging, and the other three would not be averse to her simply looking, right? If anything, she could at least tidy up. She climbed the stairs and entered the first door on the right. The bed looked the same as the one in Athos’ room and had been made. There was a desk under the window, so as to get as much light as possible, and a shelf stacked with books stood next to it. Many of the books had no covers and were yellowed with age and use. A crucifix was mounted on the wall, revealing this to be Aramis’ chamber, and she crossed herself, bowing her head briefly in a prayer for the safety of her new friends and her brother before she left, shutting the door behind her. She turned her attention to the last door on the right side and it opened onto a room of similar layout except there was no desk or bookshelf, but instead a bursting armoire against the wall beside the unmade bed. Opening the armoire revealed clothes on a grand and gaudy scale, some of which were painful to her seamstress eyes. She did her best to hang up some items and fold others on the bottom, but it was still ridiculously hard to close the doors. She made the bed neatly then left. _That had to be Monsieur Porthos’ room_ , she thought, thinking of all the times he had changed clothes in the three days she’d known him. The final room through the door on the left was decoratively sparse. The wardrobe was open a crack and very few clothes were held within save for two other black suits much like Athos’ (only twice as small) and a couple spare linen shirts. The bed covers were tossed over the foot board unceremoniously as if the sleeper had had much better things to do than deal with those sheets. Orianne recalled that Athos said D’Artagnan had not been with them very long, so this had to be his room. There were no personal touches to it when compared to the others. She closed the wardrobe and made the young man’s bed, tucking the covers neatly and sliding her hand across them to flatten them.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door downstairs, and feeling very unsure she crept down to answer it. A woman stood on the other side wearing a well made dress of golden and black brocade, a wide hood resting on the crown of her head so as not to muss up her thick red curls.

“Is there something you need, Madame?” asked Orianne with a slight stammer. Milady smiled sweetly at her and reached out for her hand.

“Do not be afraid of me,  dear girl. I will not harm you. I am only here to see an old friend of mine, if you could get him for me?”

“What is your friend’s name?”

“His name is Athos, Mademoiselle. Perhaps I could come in? It is a little chilly.” Orianne’s eyes grew wide and she stammered apologies to the lovely woman as she entered.

“Madame, I am so sorry, but Athos is not here. He had to go to see the King.”

“To see the King?” exclaimed Milady is a high tone, “This is unfortunate. Here I was thinking I would be able to visit him. I haven’t seen him in so long!” Poor Orianne felt terrible, and so led Milady up stairs into the main room, offering her a drink. Orianne sat down on the bench next to her, wringing her hands in her lap.

“Oh thank you, child. It has been such a trip. Getting across Paris is a chore in itself in these troubling times.” Milady sipped the wine, found the vintage distasteful, and set the cup back down. For it to be in this household proved just how hard the invasion had hit the city.

“But I should ask your name, so I know who to thank for giving me such pleasant company!” exclaimed Milady, taking Orianne’s hand in a sudden firm grip.

“My n-name is Orianne,” stammered the nervous child, “and may I know your name so I can tell Athos who came to see him?”

“I am Anne de Brueil, but I would rather you not tell him I have been around. I want to surprise him with my arrival rather than hurt him knowing he has missed our meeting. Can you please not tell him I came by, dear?” asked Milady ever so gently, giving her such a hopeful look. Orianne smiled and nodded happily. It was the first time she had been entrusted with a secret from another woman, and everyone knew that a woman’s secret were really something to be trusted with! Milady looked away from the girl, feeling the briefest flash of guilt in tricking someone so innocently stupid. What was Athos thinking in taking this woman as his mistress?

“You seem quite familiar with Athos yourself, Orianne,” began Milady, trying to see how deep this truly was, “How do you know him? He never mentioned you before.”

“Oh no, I never knew him until some time ago, about a month, maybe two,” she chirped happily. “My brother Roderic asked Athos to watch after me because he was thrown out of our home. Athos taught me how to read and write, and we are very good friends.”

“Really, he taught you to read? That was very sweet of him,” said Milady with a barely disguised surprise. Orianne nodded.

“He is a very kind gentleman; he takes care of me. And he is very...” Here her voice trailed away as she began to blush a deep red. Milady blinked and did her best not to laugh. _It seems she has affections for him as well_.

“Handsome?” Milady filled in and again, Orianne simply nodded, this time burying her red face in her hands. “I do not blame you for thinking so, child. For a man his age, he is very pleasing to the eye.”

“But it is so unchristian of me to think so!” Orianne said fearfully. “And I have seen him without clothes, which the Church says is only to happen after one is married.” _Why Athos, you scoundrel!_ Milady thought wickedly. She leaned forward like a cat stalking prey.

“When did this happen, Orianne? You can confess to me; I will not condemn you,” she said soothingly, patting her larger hand on the table.

“It was this morning. I wanted to get my dyes, but I forgot that I have been using Athos’ room since he was gone for three days. I went in and he was there washing, and it was so terribly bad of me, but I did look at him and...” Her voice died and she looked away. Milady sat back, a little disappointed, having expected something quite different than this.

“Well, it sounds like just a simple mistake. It is not wrong to like what you did see, so long as neither of you acted. I absolve you, child. Please do not be so upset,” said Milady. Orianne smiled at her, her eyes slightly misty.

“Thank you, Madame de Brueil for your—”

“Please call me Anne.”

“Alright,” she blinked owlishly at the woman, eyes glittering with a happy light, “Thank you for your kindness, Anne,” she said. Milady stood, brushing her skirts.

“I should be going. I don’t want to ruin my surprise for Athos by already being here when he returns.” Orianne walked her to the door, looking a little sad.

“Will you come back again? I did like talking with you,” she said hopefully. Milady inclined her head gently, giving her a quick wink.

“Of course I shall. I find your company inviting and your conversation very _revealing_ ,” she said before descending the stairs and returning to her awaiting carriage. Orianne closed the door, happy at having made a new friend, and her first female one at that.


	19. Anchors & Toxins

In the following days, Milady had been in and out of the city more than ever, paying her promised visits to Orianne and reporting to Richelieu in order to maintain appearances, but giving him almost nothing with regards to information. Buckingham had finally wholly tired of waiting and was no longer willing to give Richelieu time to complete his own affairs on the land. It was growing near to the time to act. She had watched the Englishman with curiosity as messages were passed via the coloured flame signals, blue and green and yellow but never red, and saw airships moving into new positions. At dawn of the third day of preparations that she approached the Duke in his cabin and finding him seated behind a desk.

“Should I assume that you will now take your revenge on France?” she asked gently, creeping up behind him and kneading his shoulders through his blue doublet. He gave a relieved sigh, leaning into her ministrations with a chuckle.

“Yes, at last. I hope that you have kept up your part,” he said, lifting a glass of deep red wine from a side table. Milady’s smirk reflected back at him from the clear surface.

“But of course I have. Athos seems to have moved on from me and into a much younger, and more gullible, field of choice. I am sure he will regret ever knowing the girl after this.” Buckingham’s smile was cold and cocky. He sipped from the glass before his spoke.

“Excellent. Be ready; you are to return to Paris for the last time.”

***

The sun was beginning to set as Roderic thumped into his lodging in the Luxembourg quarter, exhausted, sore, and dragging his bandoleer (1) clattering with powder flasks in one hand, struggling to shed his grey tabard with the other. It had been a ridiculously long night dressed in full equipment and musket at the ready, as if it was ever actually needed in this siege. He hung the bandoleer in his room, careful to avoid passing too close to the hearth on his way, and threw his uniform over a chair as he flopped down in another. His fingers weakly unbuttoned his doublet and pulled his tucked shirt free from his breeches in hopes of cooling off without too much effort. This was not exhaustion, this was hell.

Normally, Roderic was quite capable of attending his guard duties, and happily at that, but it was hard when he was on the night rotation and his replacement never showed. He could hardly leave his post empty of another guard, so he would stay until he could not stand or a lieutenant found him and sent him away, which ever occurred first. For now, he tilted his weary head to regard the mostly empty shelves he used to store his food, and the string stretched between a pair of beams on which dangled a couple sausages. Did he have the strength left to get up and put together some dinner? No, I do not, he thought. He settled instead for a cup of wine poured from the bottle he had left on the table and watched from an open window the clouds skid across the orange sky, giving a weary sigh.

***

“Planchet, where is the damn wine?” Porthos bellowed, pounding his fist on the table. Aramis shot him a stern, disapproving look but the giant ignored him and hollered for the rotund servant again until he appeared from upstairs, dropping his burden of sheets and tripping on the stairs.

“Sorry, Monsieur, I did not have time to—”

“He was helping me with something, Monsieur Porthos,” interrupted Orianne. “Please, let him be. It is my fault.” Aramis frowned at her.

“Be that as it may Orianne, Planchet has responsibilities. We pay him to be our servant and expect him to act in such a manner if he wants to be paid.” She nodded and looked down at her plate mutely but from his angle, Athos was surprised to see such a mutinous expression on her face while Planchet was stammering apologies. He had the impression that she was biting her tongue and this was proven when he watched her lips move. At least you could be nicer, was what she whispered only to herself. No one else noticed this as Porthos had sent Planchet off for wine; Aramis was eating his food blindly while he read as usual, and D’Artagnan wolfed down his food with the hunger and haste of youth. Orianne picked at her portion of beef, nibbling a path around the edges and sometimes sucking gently on the fat to remove all the meat that was still attached.

“Athos?” the older man turned his attention to D’Artagnan, who eyed him with such a hopeful look in his eyes. “Perhaps we could spar tomorrow, if you think you could handle it?” The taunt did not go unnoticed; Athos’ eyes flashed at the challenge, but he only picked up his half full cup and drained it in one draught.

“I am sure I could leave you flat on the cobbles, boy,” growled Athos, his small grin indicating that the youngest had succeeded in getting his sparring partner.

“If you could keep up that is,” said the cocky youth, waving his knife back and forth like a wagging finger. Athos’ lips quirked up briefly at a corner, but it happened too quickly for it to be one of his rare smiles. 

“We shall see who can keep up tomorrow morning.”

***

Queen Anne regarded her ladies chattering about her as they took their meal in her private rooms. While Louis had been resting, she had been trying to avoid disturbing him but the effort was fruitless. He maintained a relatively steady stream of visitors to his bedchambers, and conducted state affairs from the comfort of his bed. She sighed and looked down at her plate of pheasant with a despairing expression until she felt a hand on her arm. Constance was watching her through her grey eyes, her blonde head adorned with a spiralling mound of braids strung through with tiny flowers, and she wore her favourite dress, golden brown brocade with sleeves that sat half-off her shoulders. It was trimmed fashionably with white lace around the top of the bodice.

“Your Majesty is everything alright?” asked Constance worriedly. Anne gave the young woman a gentle smile.

“Do not concern yourself, Constance. I only worry for the King’s well-being,” said Anne. “Come, let us finish our meal. Then, we shall play a game of cards. That should ease my worries for a little while.”

***

The leftover of a small meal hadn’t yet been taken away from the table near the king’s bed, but the moment his valet announced Tréville, he motioned for him to be allowed in the chamber.

“Tréville, I am glad you could come,” said Louis, as the captain entered the room and bowed respectfully at the foot of the large canopy bed, whose drapes had been pulled back to allow the king to freely look about him in the room.

Tréville surmised the king at a glance, noting his paled complexion and somewhat restless demeanour. He exchanged a glance with La Chesnaye, who simply bit his lip and shut the door behind him as he left the room.

“Please, do come closer, captain,” urged Louis, motioning towards a chair that had been placed close to the bed.

“There is indeed news, Sire, regarding the airships,” Tréville said as he obeyed Louis’ wish. “There is an increase in their activity which leads me to believe that Buckingham may be plotting something more than just a continuing siege..."

***

Buckingham smiled almost evilly, staring down at the roof of the Louvre. Milady had procured him a map of the palace, making his plans so much simpler, and alongside him stood several of his best swordsmen, and other soldiers prime for action, all gripping their hilts with intense anticipation as they awaited orders. He lifted his arm to signal his captain to hold their position as best as possible, despite being at the mercy of the wind, revelling in the dramatic stillness of the moment before lowering his hand, slapping it to the railing.

***

“Tréville, are you alright?” yelled Louis, untangling himself from his now dust coated sheets. His ever loyal captain scrambled away from his toppled chair in order to stand. There were screams from court women echoing from the distant halls. Louis stared at the anchor now blocking the door to his antechamber, pulling himself from the bed with slight weakness, while Tréville approached the hole. The older man suddenly began backing away and drawing his blade as ropes attached to thin bars of iron fell through, followed by the feet & uniforms of Englishmen.

“Get behind me, Your Majesty!” ordered Tréville, to which the King made to follow until suddenly changing direction and diving for his own blade hanging with his wardrobe.  Soldiers landed before them and charged forth only to be blocked by the snarling musketeer captain. Louis found himself suddenly face-to-face with the sneering, yet unarmed Buckingham.

“Is it a new fashion to be fighting in only one’s nightshirt, your Majesty?” he asked. Louis felt his ears turn pink and a petulant rage building, but instead he said nothing, gripping his sword tighter. The clash of blades in the background only added to his internal turmoil, distracting him greatly as he tried to spot Tréville amongst the mass and had no luck. Buckingham took advantage of his opponent’s evident distraction to draw his own blade and attack, sending Louis towards the window and further away from the main fight.

“Cowards, the lot of you!” Tréville bellowed, throwing himself into another fight after smashing his fist into the face of another man. One soldier leapt on the musketeer’s back and jerked back his head while another drove his hilt into Tréville’s gut. He dropped to his knees and the English soldiers swarmed him, one stomping on his hand until it gave a nasty crack to make him release his sword. Louis continued defending himself against Buckingham, flinching as the blows became harsher, making his wrist tremble. Spotting an opening, he pressed forward suddenly and Buckingham leapt back with a surprised cry, touching his cheek with his fingers. They came back with blood.

“Milord, what should we do with this man?” demanded one of the soldiers while his fellows fought to keep the winded Gascon spread-eagled and pinned to the ground. Buckingham did not reply as Louis, emboldened by his sudden luck, came at him again. Their duel continued as fists pounded the chamber door and yells resounded from behind it. Nothing could be done however; the anchor had landed thus that the door could not be opened in.

“Milord, the French will come in at any moment!” said a soldier, slightly panicked. Buckingham got close enough to give the young monarch a rough shove, wrenching the sword from his weaker fingers as he fell. He then pressed a boot on his chest, holding him there, and leaned over to see his face better.

“Now, Sire, you will be coming with me. If you refuse,” here the English Minister grinned wickedly, “I will order your man executed.” Louis turned his head to look at Tréville, his face beaten, gasping for air under the weight of many, and closed his eyes.

“I shall go with you,” he said bitterly. Buckingham removed his boot and stood tall, smirking righteously.

“Light the flame,” he said, and a soldier removed a torch from his back. He touched to a candle that had remained standing and the cloth kindling caught, burning a bright yellow. The chamber door gave ominous cracks as someone or something battered against it. Multiple ropes fell and attached to them was a net, into which they placed the King.

“What should we do with him?” asked a soldier. Buckingham waved to the net.

“Let the King have his loyal dog. We can deal with him later.” So they dragged Tréville over and placed him alongside the King. Then, the net was raised up into the bowels of the ships. The soldiers mounted their ropes with the iron bar foothold and were slowing raised up as well. Buckingham remained until an opening was made in the door and he could see the person beyond it, giving Athos a wide smile before he was lifted away.

“Damn!” cursed the musketeer, seeing Buckingham making his escape and unable to do a thing about it. He threw aside the musket whose butt he had been using to break open the door. He grunted as he shoved his entire weight against the broken panel of the door, and it swung free, finally released from the hold that the anchor had on it, as it was raising into the skies. The musketeer didn’t lose a moment; he ran at the heavy metal object and grabbed hold of it. The anchor lifted him off after the ship like a ragdoll.

***

“Here, Orianne, use this,” said Milady smoothly, passing her a cup she drew from a slit in one of the large folds of her skirt. “Have some wine; it will put your nerves at ease.” She had been watching the young woman fumble with her needle and thread for a few moments now. When the four men had abruptly left after hearing the sudden commotion caused by Buckingham, and she had made sure that their idiot servant was nowhere in sight to recognise her, Milady had called upon the girl with all the appearance of a fretful friend. Orianne, as always, suspected nothing in her blind innocence, and pulled Milady inside almost protectively. Before coming here, Milady had prepared a cup in the same manner as she had done for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis the previous year, and now all that was needed was the drink.

The girl took the cup between her sizeable hands, set it down slowly, and then filled it with wine. She only drank half of it, however, because when she stood, she stepped on the back of her skirt, falling to the ground and sending the cup rolling away.

“You clumsy fool!” yelled Milady, and Orianne stared at her with wide, frightened eyes. Milady tried to straighten her face into a calmer, gentler expression, but her annoyance was difficult to mask and Orianne could see it. She shuffled backwards on the floor away from the angered older woman. She tried to focus but her vision kept blurring at the edges, and the outlines of the furniture seemed to drag along a lot further than they should have.

“Oh Orianne, I am sorry, sometimes my temper gets the better of me,” Milady cooed, reaching out to her. “Take my hand. I’ll help you up.” Orianne backed herself against a wall and fumbled to grasp the stones to pull herself to her feet. Her knees shook violently as she pushed off and lunged for the table, falling on her chest on top of it, a couple of pewter plates clattering on the floor. Milady clucked her tongue sympathetically.

“There must have been something in the wine,” she wondered aloud. “No matter, Athos asked me to take you away somewhere safe and that is just what I am going to do.”

“No,” Orianne said softly into the notched wood. Her eyes blinked rapidly and through the misty vision, she saw a gleam of light reflecting off a knife that was still on the table despite her lumbering about. Her fingers stretched and took hold of the handle.

“What was that, my dear?” Milady asked sweetly, grabbing a hold of one of her broad, but boney, shoulders and pulling her upright.

“I said no!” Orianne turned with the knife and drew it blindly through the air. There was a yelp, and something warm and wet touched her cheek. The room swirled violently and Orianne fell with a muted cry. She lay on her back, staring up at Milady with blue eyes wide open, watching the blood from the woman’s split brow trickle from under her fingers and past her eye, appearing as if she were crying it, until everything went black.

“You wretched, stupid girl!” spat Milady, kicking the still body roughly. She pulled a handkerchief from her bodice and pressed it firmly to her brow. Her hand was stained with her own blood, a most uncommon occurrence. She marched to the door and gestured for her four guards to enter. One approached her, offering his own kerchief.

“Do you need assistance, Milady?”

“Get her into the carriage, and be quick about it. Toss her on the floor,” she ordered harshly. “When I am settled, give the signal to the ship and be ready to leave as soon as it begins to descend.” Two soldiers lifted Orianne, one grasping her under her arms and the other holding her legs, shuffled awkwardly down the narrow stairwell and outside into open air. People were too busy pointing at the ship hovering over the Louvre to pay much attention to anything else, and they quickly ensconced the unconscious body on the floor of Milady’s carriage then helped said lady inside herself. Four torches were taken from the trunk attached to the back of the vehicle and flint was struck until the sparks caught the cloth and the four sticks began to glow red. The soldiers positioned themselves as near to the house as possible, slowing waving their torches until an airship stationed a slight distance away over the Seine began to descend opposite them. They then threw the flaming sticks into the river and bolted for the carriage, clinging to the corners as the driver whipped the horses into swift movement.

***

A gust of wind blinded Athos for a second, and when his vision returned, he was dangling a dizzying fifty feet into the air. He clutched to the chain of the anchor, wide eyed, and stared at the chimneys below him. He was definitely out of his comfort zone.

“Land this thrice accursed vessel, Buckingham, I order you!” A bellow came from above, which the musketeer recognized as Louis’ voice.

“Wishing to depart so soon, Sire? But our only desire is to serve you. How better could we do so then to host you in our best and _highest_ accommodations in London?”

 _I had better get moving_ , Athos thought. Grinding his teeth and ignoring the dizziness swimming at the brim of his eyes, Athos reached higher onto the chain and started hoisting himself upwards, feeling his arms protest from the sudden and unaccustomed effort, and swearing to himself for his most liberal wine consumption over the past year.

The chain was lathered in slime and extremely hard to maneuver, but he had all the motivation in the world to continue climbing: not to end up like a _crêpe_ on the streets below.

“Hoist the anchor!”

A head appeared over the railing and a shout of alarm rang in the atmosphere.

“Your Lordship, there is a Frenchman above our anchor!”

Athos swore under his breath and attempted to climb faster.

“Well, what have we here?”

The musketeer’s head whipped up to see the duke smirking at him from above, his arms folded on the railing.

“Buckingham, you cowardly bastard! Free His Majesty at once!”

“Or what, Athos? You will throw slime at me?”

The guffaws of the crew barely covered the thunderous swear from the musketeer, causing Buckingham to tut patronizingly.

“Now now, Athos, one mustn’t be vulgar before the king.”

Louis was forcefully brought forth to the railing for a split second, enough for Athos to notice that he had been solidly bound and gagged with a handkerchief.

“When I get hold of you, Buckingham, I will tear out your guts and choke you with them!”

“Begging your pardon, Athos, but I think this is the end of the line for you. Cut off the anchor!”

The order was immediately followed by a deafening clang, a scream, and then Athos was falling, falling faster, away from the flying airship, and in the very middle of the Seine River. The musketeer fought with all his might and finally broke through the surface, coughing up water and drawing several choking breaths of air. People stood along the edge of the river, staring at him and shouting things that he couldn’t quite hear through the whistling in his ears from the descent. Judging by the distance of the air ship, Athos tried to calculate in his head just how far he fell with that anchor and finally stopped estimating at about 150 feet.

As he swam for the river’s edge, the people turned their attention back to the air and a woman screamed. Athos craned his head around to see from the corner of his eye a ragdoll-like figure tumbling through the air as his fingers touched stone, and he pushed off harshly, striking out with tired limbs back into the river, relying on the current to carry him faster towards the body. He paused a moment to catch his breath again, blinking the water from his eyes to try and pinpoint the mass. Spotting it a little to his left, he gave chase until he could no longer see it on the surface then dove. Through the murkiness, he spotted Tréville, or what looked to be Tréville, floating aimlessly with a small stream of bubbles issuing from his lips. Athos hooked the captain with his arm about his waist and kicked and stroked back to the surface. The weak light from the mostly set sun gave him little comfort, turning the water black and ever more treacherous in appearance, but Athos was not too concerned. He spared a quick thought to his father, who had seen fit to teach him to swim in hopes he would be part of the navy, and then looked to his new companion. It was indeed Tréville, heavily battered and bruised and hardly breathing.


	20. Homeless & Honoured

“Aramis, slow down! It’s just a little smoke; there is probably a chain already.” Porthos reached to grab his friend’s shoulder to try and slow him down, but he missed and waved about wildly before regaining his balance. Aramis had not noticed and drew farther ahead.

The pair of musketeers had left the palace in great haste, without either Athos or D’Artagnan, in order to discover the cause of the smoke in the distance. Athos had split away from them abruptly during the chaos at the palace and D’Artagnan had been snatched up by des Essarts so as to have as many men as possible to safely evacuate the building. The Cardinal’s sudden offer of shelter, delivered by his captain De Cavoie, had come as a shock but it was also well-received and accepted. When Aramis and Porthos had realised they were unnecessary parties to the evacuation, they had left and upon seeing distant smoke, immediately headed for it. They rounded a corner into a square and ran through it without pause, the orange light growing brighter and becoming a second sunset. Aramis stopped suddenly; Porthos passed him then turned around and came back.

“What are you stopping for?” demanded Porthos. Aramis looked around with a worried frown.

“Porthos, have you noticed which way we are going?” he asked. Porthos grabbed and wrenched his arm, pulling him along.

“Yes, I’ve noticed. We go this way to get back home. It’s not ours. It cannot be.”

Aramis hummed noncommittally and continued on his fast pace. As they turned from Rue École Saint-Germain onto the Pont-Neuf, they heard faint murmurs that increased in volume until they recognized screams and shouts of panic. The two musketeers exchanged a glance and started running towards the direction of the commotion.

As they made again a left turn on Des Augustins, Aramis heard Porthos swear under his breath and the vague words of please, God, and not the left again. The noise became louder and a rumbling, roaring sound joined in. Porthos cursed loudly and voraciously as they tripped on the cobbles whilst trying to turn and passed under the arch leading onto the short extension of the Pont Notre Dame.

Some people were running right and left, panic stricken and in the way of the few who were tempting to form a chain from the edge of the river to the burning building. Aramis stopped at its foundation and shut his eyes with a wary and fitful sigh; it was indeed their house that was burning, along with the small apartments above it.

The spectacle was truly a sad sight to behold. Porthos and Aramis watched, shocked, for several moments, as screams filled the air along with the groaning of the flaming building and the roaring of the fire within. The air reeked of burnt flesh, blood, sweat and urine. Aramis was the first of the two to recover his senses.

“Quick, Porthos, let’s organize this chain to make the water come faster!” Porthos opened his mouth to protest but then quickly closed his mouth when there was a swift upsurge in the screams when the flames that engulfed their home now began to eat away at the house next to theirs. Aramis was guiding the more robust looking women into a second line to pass the buckets back to the river. Porthos gruffly pushed men into a more organised set up, focusing on the second house; theirs was too far gone to be saved.

“Oh my God!!” Someone shrieked, pointing up to a window of the small apartment above the musketeers’ home. A body fell forth from it, covered in flames, and landed with a heavy thump in the middle of the street. A young man tipped over a barrel of brine on to the body and doused the fire but it was obvious that it was too late for the person who was too charred to be recognised as man or woman.

“Faster, faster!” Aramis ordered, having joined the line himself, sweat trickling down into his eyes. Porthos had children search for more buckets and give them to the women. The fire was a vicious red and yellow beast tearing through the second house. A crack wrought the air and the musketeers’ roof collapsed inside the structure. The shutters of the third house along were being licked by the flaming tongues. Porthos jumped to the front of the male line and thrust the water up as best he could. It splattered on the white washed surface and the fire seemed to hiss in pain as it was doused. This continued for some time, long enough for D’Artagnan to arrive, be as stunned as his friends before had been, and add his help where he could. The fire went out soon after that leaving one house well and truly destroyed; a second quite inhabitable; a third quite damaged. The street was hazy with smoke. D’Artagnan choked a little as he came up to Porthos and Aramis, his face an image of horror.

“How did this happen?” he asked with great dismay. The three turned to stare at the remains of their home in silence. Aramis sighed, closing his eyes. Porthos frowned up at the sky for a moment or two then spoke slowly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I guess you could say this was our payment for improving the Tower of London.”

*****

Nine chimes resounded throughout the otherwise quiet room. Oblivious to the water slowly dripping from his breeches onto the immaculate floor, Athos sat, still as a statue, at the bedside of his captain, who had yet to wake after their ordeal. On the directives of the adrenalin-driven musketeer, Tréville had been stripped, dried, bandaged and bedded in one of the lieutenant rooms of the Cardinal’s Palace. Any attempts at offering him care had been met with at the least a glare, and the most, a strong enough curse to make even the most outspoken of carters blush.

Athos was waiting.

The silence was starting to get to him after all of the recent excitement; everything seemed far too calm. The king had been taken hostage; the captain of his elite was in horrible condition; the Louvre now suffered from the same level of damage as Notre Dame. As he sat there, the realisation began to set in that he stank of the Seine and he was becoming nauseated. His revelry was interrupted as Des Essarts entered, his face set with worry.

“Has there been any change?” he asked. Athos shook his head.

“No. The captain still sleeps.” Des Essarts removed his hat and pushed his fingers through his hair, releasing a puff of air. He abruptly pulled one of the chairs over near Tréville’s feet and sat down roughly.

“Tell me, Monsieur Athos,” began Des Essarts, “is His Majesty as safe as can be expected?”

“He is with the duke of Buckingham, captain”, drawled Athos in a more tired sounding voice then he would have wanted. “This means he is as safe in London as he would be in a den of wolves.”

“Wonderful,” spat Des Essarts, standing suddenly and throwing his hands out in a wide, angry gesture, “this is marvelous. _Pardieu_! The king has been stolen, the captain of the musketeers is out of commission, we are forced to rely on the charity of His Eminence to safeguard the Queen, and there are reports coming in of a fire having been started along the Pont Notre Dame! Damned be those Englishmen!”

Athos opened his mouth to reply when a faint groan sounded in the room. Both he and Des Essarts swerved towards the bed, where Tréville had given a sign of life for the first time in several hours. His grey eyes roamed about, half lidded, before fixing on Athos, and the imperious hand rose from the bed in a beckoning motion. Obeying to this as he would an order bellowed in the hotel courtyard, Athos approached his captain and leaned in slightly.

Tréville jerked on his arm with more force than could be expected from a man who had just fallen down a couple hundred feet in the Seine. Athos watched wide-eyed as he groped about for something and finally found his white scarf which had been brought back after being dried. He mutely draped it about Athos’ neck, gave him a piercing look and fell back senseless against his pillow.

The filthy musketeer stood and reached up slowly to finger the clean scarf, unable to speak from shock even though his face was blank of all emotion. Des Essarts regarded Athos with a somewhat closed expression for a moment before carefully placing a hand on his shoulder.

"It seems that the musketeers now have an available captain, is that not so Athos?" As Athos remained mute, he continued: “But a captain can only take care of his men if he takes care of himself first. Go home, wash up, rest. You have done what you can. Tréville is in safe hands, I assure you.”

Des Essarts lifted his hand from Athos’ shoulder as the man nodded and drew on his willpower to keep his feet moving. The thought of reaching home where a change of clothes, a basin of water to wash with, and perhaps a cup of warm wine waited was his motivation. He pulled off his gloves, tucked them into his belt, and rubbed at his tired eyes to keep them open. Along the way, when Athos passed by a home with the shutters opened wide and within a family gathered near the fire, he halted abruptly. Des Essarts had mentioned a fire earlier, had he not? Athos felt a fresh burst of energy rush through his blood as he ran, making every wish possible that the disaster had occurred on the opposite end of the bridge, far from their home and from them. _Buckingham would not dare to!_ He swore as his boot heel was caught between some separated cobbles. _How would he even know where to look?_

His hurried march carried him to the Pont Notre-Dame, where a few wisps of smoke still lingered in the air, causing him to cough a little. He felt an odd tightening in his chest at the sight of their devastated home. People, it seems, were quietly making their way around him, looking almost apologetic. Another family was busy gathering what they could salvage from their property with lost looks on their faces. And how could he blame them, when in all likelihood, these people had lost their home and probably had nowhere else to go?

He turned around and met D’Artagnan’s gaze from where he was sitting on the other side of the street. The youth’s eyes widened.

“Athos! I nearly didn’t recognize you!”

As Aramis and Porthos glanced up, the gascon stood and ran towards the eldest of their group, looking every bit like a lost child wanting to bury his face in a parent’s chest. He slowed down at the last moment, though, and stood there awkwardly, until Athos roughly pulled him in a hug and pressed his chin on the top of his head.

“Where were you all this time?”

“Where were you all this time?” Aramis asked, holding his doublet in his hand, his once clean shirt now filthy and his hair greyed slightly with soot. Porthos was not quite as dirty, but it was horribly strange to see him looking so worn, maybe even forlorn. Athos found it incredibly difficult not to smirk at the picture the four of them made: an upset boy, a poor early aged priest, a depressed giant, and a drowned rat.

“Buckingham has taken the king,” said Athos in a flat voice. “I was trying to stop him but was thrown in the Seine.”

Porthos regarded Athos strangely for a moment before pointing to the scarf, a smile breaking his solemnity.

“Glad you could finally make it back, _captain_ ,” he remarked with an attempt at a chuckle. D’Artagnan looked up, seeing the pristine white of the fabric above him, and pulled away quickly, his eyes unconsciously shining with awe. Athos gave an awkward shuffle.

“It’s only temporary,” he said lowly, avoiding D’Artagnan’s gaze.

“What happened to Tréville?” asked the gascon, his expression suddenly worried. “Is he...?”

“Dead?” cut in Athos, shaking his head. “No, no, Tréville is alive, but he was wounded while trying to protect the king.” D’Artagnan nodded, looking much more relieved.

“We should try to find somewhere else to stay,” said Aramis, looking again at the wreckage. “I have no desire to sleep on the streets tonight if it can be helped.”

“Just a moment,” said Athos, his eyes growing wide. “Where is Orianne? Have any of you seen her?”

The three regarded each other, expecting an answer which none could provide. Porthos shrugged; D’Artagnan was apologetic; Aramis thoughtful.

“Speaking of missing people,” began Porthos, “what became of Planchet and the horses?”

“You sent Planchet away for wine before we heard Buckingham’s attack on the Louvre and went to investigate,” said D’Artagnan. “So he was probably still out, but the horses...” The young man’s voice trailed away into a sad silence while he thought of Buttercup, his spotted mare, her burned body crushed beneath the wreckage.

“Masters, thank the Lord you are safe!” Planchet yelled as ran towards them, puffing upon arrival. D’Artagnan went to speak but Athos beat him, grabbing the rotund man by the collar and giving him a rough shake.

“Planchet, have you seen Orianne?” he demanded. Planchet stammered pointlessly for a few moments before Aramis stepped in, tearing Athos’ hands away.

“He told you he has no idea, Athos! There is no need to strangle him!”

“Planchet, what happened to the horses?” asked D’Artagnan hurriedly before Athos could try and resume his interrogation.

“When I came back from getting more wine, the place was already on fire so I couldn’t go inside, could I? I went for the stables, put some ropes on the horses, led them out, and brought them to Monsieur de Tréville’s stables. I got myself quite singed, too.” This last part was added in a mutter as he knew none would really be interested in hearing it. D’Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief that his horse was quite safe, if perhaps shaken up from the fire.

“Orianne is a smart girl,” hastily put in Aramis, seeing Athos’ jaw tighten. “She probably ran and found shelter in a neighbouring church. That is, after all, what I told her to do should a situation such as this arise.”

Athos began curling his lip and then stopped. He whipped around and stared intently at the ruins behind him, as if trying to look through the broken stone and the burnt wood. Before any of his friends could react, he made a mad dash for the door falling off its hinges and disappeared inside the somewhat still smoking building, making the structure groan threateningly and causing several onlookers to gasp loudly.

"Athos what are you doing?!" Aramis yelled.

"He's taken leave of his senses!" declared Porthos. "There's nothing in there!" 

"Get out Athos, before the whole thing collapses!" shouted D'Artagnan. All three were, however, ignored, and the wood cracked and creaked as Athos moved about inside what was left of the first floor. There was silence briefly then the shutters on what had been Athos' room burst open and he was climbing out with an arm wrapped tightly about what appeared to be a simple bundle of cloth. He clung to the window sill for a couple of seconds before letting go and landing hard on his feet.

"What's that?" D'Artagnan asked, leaning forward slightly with narrowed eyes.

"Cloth," said Porthos simply. "Though how it survived is a miracle."

Just then, the bundle of cloth wailed, causing the three friends to jump and stare as Athos approached, covered in soot and visibly more tired than before. D’Artagnan was the first to recover from the shock, and he approached his older friend to take a look at what he had rescued. Meeting with no objection, he pushed aside a part of the cloth to reveal a toddler, visibly a girl by the way her curls were tied with ribbons, who could be perhaps three years old. The child sported a mean gash along her forehead and was even more covered in soot than Athos was, but was otherwise safe, sound, and crying very hard into the dirty doublet which her rescuer was wearing.

“We did not even realise...” said Porthos, looking over D’Artagnan’s head at the girl. He offered his handkerchief to Athos so he could try to clean the blood from her small face. “When did we get neighbours above us?”

“Not very long ago Porthos,” said Aramis sadly, shaking his head. “The landlord came to inform us that he was going to rent out the attic, but I was the only one there and I completely forgot with all that has happened.”

“Where my Maman?” hiccupped the little girl, her nose dribbling, “Where my Papa? I want Maman!”

Athos made a hushing noise as he pressed her now relatively clean forehead back to his chest and covered her with the cloth again, looking as though he had done nothing but care for children for his entire life. Porthos could not hold a chortle of laughter, which was haughtily ignored. The sobs and hiccoughs subsided slowly into silence, and Athos looked at Aramis intently.

“We have little choice but to seek shelter with the Court, at the Palais Cardinal. We will doubtlessly be needed and there is nothing else we can do here for the moment.”

Aramis sighed and nodded in agreement. Porthos glanced at the house again with a firm, closed expression.

"I will come back tomorrow," said the large musketeer, "see if any of our equipment made it. Planchet, you'll be coming with me."

"Why me?" he asked, frowning.

"Because you're the only one of us who won't be so busy," stated Porthos. The five men and the little girl proceeded to the Palais Cardinal tired, filthy, and secretly unsure of their next move beyond seeking shelter. For Athos, it felt like hours passed with every step as he was crushed by exhaustion. He was not as young as he used to be and this fact was making itself known. His arms and legs burned, his shoulders throbbed, and the added weight of the sniffling girl, no matter how slight, was an extra burden for his drained strength. The streets were dark and moonlight was sparse. Because they had the sharpest eyes, Aramis and D’Artagnan moved forward to lead the party. Planchet grumbled to Porthos, half-heartedly trying yet again for an increase in his pay, but the giant ignored the servant entirely, not bothering to neither cuff him for the insolence nor tell him to stop his complaints.

They went around the Louvre, where the blanket of darkness hid from them the extent of the damage caused by the anchor of the airship. The area around the castle, which was usually bustling with guard activity at this time, was eerily quiet and forlorn, the windows dark and covered in drapes as though in mourning. Athos gazed upon these with an unwilling shiver and he pulled the now sleeping toddler closer to him, as if seeking comfort.

Many people were gathered around the Palais Cardinal, and it was not without relief that the four friends and the servant found Des Essarts giving orders and seeing to the organization of the two corps de garde. Unsurprisingly, he was meeting with more than just a little insubordination from the musketeers. Des Essarts looked up as the four friends approached, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Ah! Athos, I am really glad you came back!”

Athos sighed, closed his eyes, and forced himself to reopen them.

"Aramis, would you mind taking the girl?" he asked, turning to the priestly man, who asssented. The child, however, had other ideas, and when Athos tried to remove her from his person, her small hands gripped fiercely to the front of his clothes and gave a whining wail of refusal with every effort. Aramis pulled back his waiting hands and crossed his arms, smirking slightly.

"I think she would rather remain with you, Athos," he stated, facing the bitter glare that was sent his way. Porthos looked between the two then glanced towards the musketeers that had gathered in groups nearby, muttering amongst themselves and shooting ugly regards towards the captain of the royal guards. He stepped forward, took a deep breath and got the attention of his fellows with a bellow not unlike that of an angry bear.

"Pay attention, you louts! The captain needs to give you your orders!"

“The captain, you say!” jeered one of them, pinching his moustache and twirling it between his fingers. “He is lying in bed at death’s door, I have been told! He’s certainly not here to give any orders, now, is he?”

“This is where you are sorely mistaken, De Figeac,” rang Athos’ imperious voice, causing the crowd of soldiers to turn towards him. The older musketeer held his ground, despite knowing just how strange he must look standing there with his hair caked with river slime and a child literally hanging off his doublet. There were several murmurs as more and more noticed the white telltale scarf worn by the speaker, and the general mood of the troop shifted somewhat.

“Look here, Athos, perhaps you have some answers for us, as no one else seems to be able to provide them. How really is Monsieur de Tréville, and how is it that you’re wearing his scarf?”

Athos shared a look with Des Essarts, who shrugged wearily.

“There is much to atone for this night, musketeers, for we have failed in our duty. As we speak, Buckingham holds the King hostage, and it was only by sheer luck and with great courage that Tréville was able to survive the ordeal at all.”

Athos’ words caused uproar amongst the elite soldiers, expressions of their shame on the honour of Tréville and on their oath of service to His Majesty falling freely from their lips between violent swears.

“That still does not explain why you have his scarf!” declared De Figeac.

“And what happened to you?” demanded another over the roar of voices, effectively silencing them. Sometimes, men could be just like children, eager for an exciting tale at bedtime.

“Tréville bestowed his scarf upon me in a brief moment of wakefulness. I did not take it nor ask for it,” said Athos coldly. “What happened to me is none of your concern.” One of Des Essarts men bearing a halberd spoke up at this, looking surprised.

“Monsieur Athos why should you not tell them how you tried to save the King by clinging to the anchor of that godforsaken ship? And how the chain was cut free, dropping you into the Seine from a vast height? And how Monsieur de Tréville was later thrown from the ship and you saved him from drowning?” The musketeers listened mutely, constantly glancing to Athos in order to judge by his expression if the words of this lower ranked man were true. What they saw must have confirmed the report because they swiftly became more attentive. Even Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan were giving Athos looks of disbelief that made him vaguely uncomfortable.

“This is not the time for stories”, the ad interim captain said, shuffling a little to adjust the toddler’s position in his arms. “First and foremost, I must warn you against spreading the word that His Majesty has been captured by the English. The Parisians are already agitated and frightened, and the situation would become untenable if the knowledge that the King was gone became current. Does everyone here understand?”

“Yes, captain.”

“Good. Now, the Louvre, although deserted, still requires protection, and it remains our duty as musketeers to ensure that it doesn’t fall prey to petty thievery or vandalism. I need ten teams of two musketeers to patrol around the castle and the gardens from now until the normal change time. I also need four volunteers to secure De Tréville’s hotel as we will move our headquarters to the Palais Cardinal for the time being.”

Several musketeers muttered under their breath at these words but all of them nodded, attentive to Athos’ instructions. It took little time after this for the now obedient soldiers to be distributed in teams as per the plan. As they left, several amongst the rest turned back towards Athos questioningly.

“What of us, capitaine? What will we do?”

“As unpleasant as it is because of the chaos, some of you should patrol Paris and ensure to maintain a minimum of order. Break up any fights, offer assistance where possible, and remain calm at all times; this is what the people of Paris need the most right now. We will take turns in rotation to allow everyone decent rest, and we will do this until the time comes to take more drastic action to recover the King from his captors. You are dismissed, gentlemen."

There was some slightly mutterings of discontent from the remainder but they departed without fuss after which, Des Essarts approached Athos tiredly.

"It is a good thing you arrived when you did. They were growing mutinous; there would have been nothing I could have done if one of them had got it into his head to be brash and take command," he said, scratching at his greying hair. "My men are right now on the walls and at the gates, and I have spoken to De Cavoie, who has most assuredly secured the Palais Cardinal already. D'Artagnan, do you not have your turn tonight?"

The Gascon blinked dumbly at his captain for several moments, opening and closing his mouth in a fish-like manner, before he managed to speak.

"Captain, I'm afraid I--"

"Monsieur des Essarts," interrupted Aramis, "we have had a bit of trouble with our lodging and D'Artagnan no longer has his uniform or equipment because of it."

"What he's saying," cut in Porthos upon seeing the slight suspicion in Des Essarts face, "is that Buckingham burnt our home to the ground, and now the four of us have nothing."

“ _Pardieu_ , why didn’t you say something earlier, gentlemen? There are rooms at the Palais Cardinal, enough to accommodate everyone, at least until you are able to gather enough to find other lodgings. What of the… little one, there? Surely she wasn’t living with you?”

“No”, said Athos, wiping a slight sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “She is the daughter of the couple who lived in the attic above our lodgings. They were caught in the fire and the girl only survived by some divine miracle. She, like us, has nowhere to go.”

Des Essarts opened round eyes and stared at the four friends for a second, but then shook himself.

"Then I suppose I shall leave her in your care. If you will excuse me," he inclined his head respectfully and left.

"Monsieur, hold a second," said Aramis. Des Essarts turned to look at him with a questioning look.

"Would you tell us where we could find Her Majesty and her ladies?" the dark man asked. The captain pointed down along the hall beyond himself.

"You will find Her Majesty in the opposite wing of the Palais, as far from His Eminence as possible," he said with a bit of smirk. Aramis nodded his thanks and Des Essarts departed. They waited until he was a distance away before speaking. Athos had to keep twitching his head just a little in order to keep it up and his eyes open.

"Why were you asking about the ladies?" demanded D'Artagnan. Aramis glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.

"I asked for their location so that way we could leave the child with the ladies. Athos will be too occupied to be looking after her, as will we. Besides, children do better with a woman's touch. Perhaps they will have some ideas of what can be done with her after she has been cleaned, fed, and her wounds better tended." Taking the advice of the priestly man, they followed the Guard captain's footsteps and kept their ears open for the sound of lighter voices, which they quickly located in one of the larger rooms. D'Artagnan lifted his hand to knock gently upon the door and it opened to reveal Constance more wholly dressed than she had been during the evacuation, where she had only worn her nightdress. Someone had obviously gone back to the Louvre to retrieve them some better clothing.

"D'Artagnan, what are you doing here? It's awfully late," she said, focusing her gaze on each of the men in turn before returning to the youngest.

“We apologize to disturb you at this late time, Mademoiselle,” Athos interjected as he walked forward, gently pushing D’Artagnan out of the way as an excuse to temporarily use his shoulder for support. “We rescued this little girl from the charred remains of our building on the Pont Notre-Dame and she needs looking after.”

He withdrew a part of the cloth covering the toddler and showed her face to the shivering light of the candles next to the door. The little girl had fallen fast asleep against him and was pressing her cheek to his chest, sucking the tip of her finger. The gash on her forehead had luckily stopped bleeding, but not before leaving a noticeable stain on the doublet.

Constance smiled and a soft, adoring coo fell from her lips. She reached out to gently brush the girl's curls with her fingers then offered D'Artagnan a playful smile.

"You know, I never expected to be receiving a child in such a way!" she commented as she helped Athos pry free the tiny fingers clinging to his clothes.

D’Artagnan coughed a little and blushed, but Porthos laughed and Aramis chortled. Even Athos allowed a ghost of a smile to his face.

“I’m certain the child will be in good hands,” the former priest said. “We still have to get our own lodgings for now. By your leave, then, Mademoiselle?”

“Of course, Monsieur Aramis. Oh, Monsieur Athos, but you look awfully pale!”

Athos had taken a few steps back after being relieved of the child. He vaguely wondered why spots were dancing in front of his face and why D’Artagnan was suddenly extending his hands towards him before he felt himself sink into darkness.

**_The little historical fact of today revolves around the Palais Cardinal, which is known nowadays as the Palais Royal. The Cardinal bequeathed this castle, which was built in 1628, to Louis XIV, and the “Roi Soleil” stayed there during the troubling times of the Fronde. Did you know that Richelieu, a writer and a poet, adored the theater and had one in this palace? It was long known as the most beautiful of all Paris._ **


	21. Authority, Blood, and Defiance

_Darkness, rain, thunderclaps… Athos blinked and stared down at the helm he was clutching. He frowned at it in wonder. What was this? What was that doing there? He looked up and stared at the infinite vastness of the skies, which were shrouded with threatening clouds, the air around him prickling with electricity and dampness. He was back on that thrice accursed airship again! How could it be possible?_

_He felt the ship vibrate and deviate to the side as a large thunderclap resounded somewhere close to it. Before he could grab securely onto the helm, he slipped on the wet wooden boards and slid on his bottom to the handrail, flopping against it rather unceremoniously. He shook his head, dazed, and stood, feeling the airship somehow right itself under his feet. A surreal wail resounded not far from him, and he looked up, shocked._

_“Athos, help me!”_

_Orianne stood tottering at the very edge of the rail less part or the bridge, watching him with an expression that was a mixture of fear and sadness. She extended her hands to him pleadingly. He tried to run to her but found that his feet were rooted to the ground. As he watched, horrified, Milady rose from the bottomless debts, waterlogged, her eyes sunk in her skull, her lips blue and her hair an unrecognizable tangle of weeds and dirt. She grinned at him evilly as she grabbed hold of Orianne and suddenly, they were falling, falling…_

“NO!”

Athos sat up in his bed, eyes wide, heart pounding in his chest, and entirely drenched in sweat. He scrambled for his pocket watch and stared without seeing them a few moments at the hands against the feeble light of the moon. It had been such a vivid dream… What could it possibly mean?

It was approaching three in the morning, if his watch was to be trusted. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping, or when he had gone to bed for that matter.

He looked around, confused. The room was luxuriously furnished, the bed was plush and large, and the fireplace was filled with happily crackling logs. It was definitely not his room. He pushed a hand through his tangled hair and scratched at his scalp, trying to remember how he had come to be in there. He remembered the fall, the rescue, the burning house… He glared at nothing in particular at that memory. And then, there had been the captain entrusting him with his duties, the little child, the Queen… Ah. The last memory that he had was feeling faint near the lodgings of Her Majesty. He felt heat rise at his cheeks, realising that he must have lost consciousness in front of her. What could she possibly think of him, and what of his friends?

He cringed from the thought and looked about him, spotting, not without relief, a large basin and a pitcher of water on its side. He walked to it and gave himself a good wash, both to calm his wrecked nerves and to erase the memories of the night. He was pleased to find that his clothes had been freshly laundered and were waiting for him on a chair near the bed. He changed out of the night shirt that his friends had doubtlessly been responsible for his wearing and he put on his clothes, feeling much better and at ease.

He walked to the door and opened, it, leaving the room without a backward glance. There was too much work to be done for him to be dawdling. He would much rather face these responsibilities then the implications of his nightmare any day…

***

The following day, the combined courts of the Cardinal and the King were ablaze with rumour pertaining to an affair between His Eminence and Her Majesty. Talk of exchanged threats between the two heads of State was sending the women into tizzies of clucking excitement.

The danger of the King's situation and the fact that they were now under the domain of the Cardinal appeared to have no effect save that feeling of being on a brilliant adventure. The rumours began thus, during a meeting between Richelieu and Queen Anne in the early hours, regarding the continued English siege on Paris.

Anne arrived fully attired at Richelieu's quarters shockingly early, around seven, and without her regular entourage. She was dressed simply, the brown of her Spanish-styled dress in stunning contrast with her golden curls, the petals of her stiff collar standing upright and looking vaguely dangerous.

She eyed Richelieu with visible distaste, but was cordial, acknowledging his reverent bow to her, and spoke slowly as if talking to an insolent child.

"Cardinal, I wish to know why I was not informed of this little meeting until His Majesty's secretary approached me," she demanded, her eyes narrowing slightly. "It involves Lord Buckingham's continued efforts against us, does it not?"

Against the Queen’s regal attire, the Cardinal looked vaguely lazy in his cavalier style dress of white billowy shirt and black breeches. The one thing that indicated his status was the red skull cap. He regarded Anne with vague surprise, sharing a quick look with the Eminence grise and De Cavoie, but quickly masked his surprise with an expression of false concern.

“Your Majesty is correct,” said Richelieu, “but I did not want to distress you further with an update of the situation after all that has occurred-”

“I shall be the one to decide what will distress me and what will not,” she interrupted, lifting her chin stubbornly.

Richelieu opened his mouth to reply to the Queen, but then closed it again after considering her expression. He tilted his head towards the chair behind his desk and the Queen walked around it and sat, still staring icily at him as he maintained an ease honed from years of rubbing with royals.

"Des Essarts is late," remarked de Cavoie with a smirk, crossing his arms. "Has your Eminence heard who has been appointed captain of the musketeers whilst Tréville is recovering?"

"I have," said Richelieu in a bland tone, "and I would suggest, de Cavoie, that you do not take Monsieur Athos lightly."

De Cavoie gave a non-committal shrug, pulling out his pocket watch absent-mindedly to check the time. "Be that as it may, he is late as well."

At this moment, Des Essarts burst in, huffing from his run to reach the office. Richelieu lifted a brow and opened his mouth to speak when he was cut off yet again.

"Ah, Des Essarts, thank you for coming," said Anne with a warm smile. "Have you seen Monsieur de Tréville this morning, or Monsieur Athos?" The captain of the guard nodded, taking deep breaths and clearing his throat with light coughs.

"I have, Your Majesty. My brother-in-law still rests, but has regained some colour. I do not, however, know anything of Monsieur Athos." Anne frowned, her worry visible by the wrinkle on her forehead.

As if on cue, the double doors opened and the pale, drawn figure of the musketeer appeared. He quietly marched to the middle of the room, his step betraying some wound without stripping him from his noble and dignified demeanour. He bowed with a flourish to the Queen, nodded his head at the Cardinal, to his visible displeasure, and made a gesture towards Des Essarts. Anne smiled slightly.

“It is good to see you on your feet, Monsieur Athos,” she said, ignoring the irritation emanating from Richelieu. “You gave me and my ladies quite a turn last night, not to mention the darling girl you entrusted to our care.”

Athos met her twinkling eyes, unable to entirely hide his astonishment. “I wish to offer my sincerest apologies to Your Majesty. I did not mean to cause worry and grief.”

“Men who accomplish astounding feats in service to the king are worthy of my worry, and of my prayers.”

"As wonderful as it is that we know of Monsieur Athos' health, we should be getting back to the matter at hand," stated Richelieu coldly. "De Cavoie, your report."

The frowning young Captain, whose mustache twitched with indignation at Athos' lack of acknowledgement, removed his head of reddish-orange hair and began to speak in precise tones about the movements of the ships, which were relatively unchanged besides the one that aided in the King's abduction, and the damage from the fire along the Pont Notre Dame.

"Surprisingly, only three houses were ruined, Monseigneur," said de Cavoie, "and it seems to have been a deliberate attack from Buckingham. Perhaps someone was seen escaping the city?"

Athos had stood there at an easy attention, eyes somewhat out of focus while De Cavoie’s diatribe stretched much longer than was necessary. He sneered at the attention-grabbing _parvenu_ in such a way that he flinched, taking a step back and avoiding the gaze of the musketeer. Athos than raised his gaze to meet Richelieu’s, and he coldly, knowingly stared at him as he spoke.

“I have reasons to believe that the duke of Buckingham’s behaviour comes from a more… personal cause. The incident of the Tower of London must still be quite fresh in his memory. He has sought revenge, and I grieve to say that innocent parties have suffered the brunt of this senseless attack.”

"Then perhaps it would be best that Monsieur Athos stepped down from his position as Tréville's replacement," remarked Richelieu, eyeing the interim captain shrewdly, "what good does it do to have the leader of His Majesty's elite forces as Buckingham's key target?"

Anne looked at him with blank disbelief; there were three people in this room that knew the truth about what had occurred at the Tower of London, an almost disaster that Richelieu had concocted himself in his constant hunt for domination of the French crown.

"Cardinal, I will not have it. Until the King is rescued from his imprisonment, Messieurs Athos, des Essarts, and, yes, even De Cavoie, shall report to me." She glared at him, daring him to challenge her. "And Monsieur Athos has been chosen by Tréville himself; I, therefore, see no reason to remove him from this post until the Captain is well again.

“I beg Your Eminence pardon but…,” Athos started before he could stop himself, and he drew quiet, glancing at the Queen, a shade of concern crossing his brow.

“You may speak freely in our presence, Monsieur Athos,” she said softly, grinning at him. “God knows you have more than earned this right.”

Athos nodded his thanks, and he turned back to the Cardinal, who stared at him frankly, frowning at his daring. “There is an undeniable advantage to the fact that Buckingham regards me as his personal enemy and will focus his attention upon my person. It is preferable that he narrows his attention to me rather than cause more suffering to the people of Paris, who, unlike me, cannot as readily defend themselves against his wrath.”

Richelieu bit his bottom lip as the Queen smiled, though the expression seemed dampened with concern. “Such a self-sacrifice is no doubt commendable, honourable, even, _Monsieur le capitaine_ , but hardly useful should the royal musketeers suddenly find themselves without a competent leader at their head.”

Athos bowed deeply. “I have no projects whatsoever to allow His Lordship to best me, Monseigneur.”

***

Orianne groaned quietly, turning to bury her face into the pillow. Her bed rocked gently beneath her; her head pounded with a headache just behind her eyes. She opened her eyes in a squint, her sight blurred by her lashes. She felt so heavy; how could she be this tired? I have to get up, I have to wake! She thought in panic. Her arms shook as she forced her head up and wiped her eyes clean.

“Where am I?” she asked aloud, not expecting a response. The room was very constricted and a little cramped. The windows were round and small and allowed little light to pass through.

“You are high above France, my dear,” said a voice. Orianne looked towards the door of the room to see Milady seated there on a stool, her skirts holding up her legs somewhat and revealing the toes of her shoes. Orianne flinched violently and scrambled back into the corner as deep as she could manage, knocking the pillow flying and kicking up the sheet. Milady stood, clucking her tongue sympathetically and shaking her head.

“Now child, you are perfectly safe here,” she cooed whilst inside she chuckled. How could Athos have any thoughts whatsoever for this simpleton, let alone affection? “We are far from the troubles in Paris, just as Athos wanted.”

Orianne blinked at her over her skirt covered knees pinned to her chest by her wrapped about arms. This had been all Athos’ idea? Then why had she felt so sick? Why couldn’t she truly remember much? Milady drew closer, close enough to put a hand on her knee. Orianne could see a raw, scabbed cut on her face, and her stomach twisted with guilt. Milady saw where her eyes were focused and smiled, scrunching up the scab, making Orianne shudder.

“I am sorry I frightened you,” said Milady gently, rubbing the girl’s knee. “I perhaps should have explained Athos’ plan. He did not want you scared so I was to give you something to make you sleep.”

“That did not feel like sleep,” Orianne mumbled.

“Had you drunk all that I’d given you, you would have fallen right asleep, I swear,” said Milady, sitting on the end of the bed. “Now, you have to stay here in this room, I’m afraid. It is much too busy outside and you will hurt yourself. Athos would not like that, would he?”

“I don’t think--” said Orianne.

“No he would not,” stated Milady patronisingly, cutting her off. “So you will stay here, won’t you?”

Orianne’s lips thinned as she pinched her mouth with bitter annoyance, eying Milady over her arms. She gave her a slow nod and Milady stood up, reaching forward to pat her head.

“Good, sensible child,” she said with a smile. “I will have food brought down to you soon. You may not want it now, but I assure you that you will be quite famished later.” She stood, her skirts sweeping along the floor as she flounced from the room, a hand lifted to replace a stray bronze curl. Orianne waited until she could no longer hear her footsteps, which did not take that long at all really, and then got up from the bed. She swayed a little, blinked rapidly to clear her vision, and took a stumbling step towards the door. She clung to the handle as she fell against it, felt it turn under her fingers. She stepped back and pulled slightly to have the panel surprisingly open before her.

 _‘I should not be doing this_ ,’ she thought, biting her lower lip hard until it hurt. ‘ _A little walk, however, can’t hurt me, right?’_ The hall was empty; no one would see her if she went to the end of it and back. It seemed everything was wooden; the walls seemed slightly grimy. She stood in the doorway, painfully uncertain. ‘ _I can’t do this; I was told not to leave. The door is open though... You’re supposed to lock doors when someone is not allowed to leave.’_ Then her foot carried her over the threshold and she was in the silent hall. There was a sudden sound at the opposite end, male voices in a language she did not understand, and she ran in the other direction, lifting her skirt so as not to trip, and upon rounding a corner she stopped and looked back. _‘Why did I not go back in the room?’_ She went to go back, but spotting bodies Orianne realised that she could not go back, and so she pressed on.

“Out of the way!” someone yelled, shoving her aside, rolling a barrel. She pressed herself against the wall and looked around. There was a flow of steady movement, but much of it seemed that it was only to counter boredom. She walked through without anyone really noticing her. A group of men were seated around a box and playing with dice and a cup. Some others were leaning against large metal tubes set on wheeled stands, talking amongst themselves. The language made her uneasy; she knew German and French but this was different and she could understand nothing.

Climbing a set of narrow stairs that made her feel pinched and breathless, she came out into a sheltered enclosure which led onto a large open area. A hearty autumn breeze lifted her hair about her face and she brushed it behind her ears as best she could. She could see the clouds so closely from here; they looked like sheep! A table stood before her littered with small toys and a map. She had seen such set-ups before in the higher houses her father had served; older boys and their fathers had played with these. She had watched while she helped the servants clean in order to be kept out of the way. It was strange, though; she had not seen any children on board that would be able to play with these.

“That does not look right,” she muttered to herself, picking up one that looked like a boat. “There are too many down here on this lower part by...” she paused to read the curly script that the boats and little men surrounded, “La Rochelle.”

“What are you doing?” Orianne turned, still holding the boat, her eyes wide with horror. An elegantly dressed man clad in blood red with dark hair standing up like a rooster’s comb gazed at her reproachfully. She backed up against the wall; he came forward and grabbed her arm. She brought her other up to shield herself, expecting a blow that did not come.

“Milady!” called Buckingham. “I think your guest did not understand you.” Milady came away from the rail at the bow and shook her head with her disappointment upon sighting Orianne in his grasp.

“I told you to stay in that room,” she said to herself, taking her from Buckingham and handing him the boat model. “What am I going to tell Athos when we see him next? That you were so ungrateful for his protection that you put yourself in harm’s way?” She led her away, Orianne sputtering apologies.

“ _Es tut mir leid! Es tut mir leid!_ ” Milady rolled her eyes, not understanding her young companion but simply assuming it was an apology. She pushed her back into the room with a frown.

“Now stay here!” she ordered, pointing at the bed for her to sit.

“Please, wait!” Orianne begged. “I know I was not supposed to leave, and I am an ungrateful louse, but please might I have something to do while I wait?”

Milady looked at her for a moment, pondering, and then nodded slowly.

“Very well, I suppose I cannot keep you safe if you get bored and wander. I believe the seamstress we had brought aboard left some of her needles and thread, and I think the captain has some boots or cloth you can content yourself with. If you can wait until you get your meal, and you stay here this time, I will have them sent to you.” Orianne nodded happily with a bright smile. Milady left, closing and this time locking the door behind her. When she returned to the deck, Buckingham was frowning over the map, having replaced his moved piece.

“You are sure the girl is too simple to know how to read?” he asked her suspiciously. Milady scoffed.

“She mentioned that Athos had taught her, but he is no man for such things. I am sure the child made it up to try and impress me.” She approached him and lightly traced his ear with her finger, leaning against his side. “Do not fret. She will be decent bait for him, and then you may have your revenge on Athos. The girl will be useless then and can be disposed of afterwards.”

***

“I don’t understand. Where the devil could she possibly be?”

Athos stared out the window, hands clasped behind his back with a quill haphazardly stuck between his right forefinger and thumb. Three days it had been ever since the incident of the fire, and for all that time, despite all efforts, Orianne remained impossible to be found. Aramis, from his seat in front of the desk that was heavily laden with paperwork, sighed as he watched his older friend, who seemed to have darker shadows beneath his eyes every time he saw him, constantly fight between his nearly neurotic need to see that the musketeers kept to their duties and the burning desire to drop everything to hunt throughout the entire city in search of the missing young woman.

“We have searched everywhere, Athos. I’m truly sorry. I don’t know much else that we could do.”

Porthos stood behind Aramis’ chair, biting his moustache like he did whenever he felt nervous or uncomfortable. Athos turned away from the window and walked to his chair, where he slumped heavily, too tired to maintain much of his normal reserve that he held even in the presence of his most intimate friends.

“I know, Aramis, and I’m grateful to you for it… All of you. But Orianne was my responsibility. Her brother entrusted her well-being to me and I don’t even know where she is, if she is safe or even alive.” He paused, pressing his forehead into his gloved hand. “What am I to tell him?

Aramis quietly watched the distress displayed plain as day on Athos’ features, perceptive enough to realize the depth of the older man’s feelings for the missing girl, but not stupid enough to voice said observations. And so he remained quiet, allowing the interim captain time to gather his wits about him. D’Artagnan shot Aramis a quick glance to which the other man shook his head. Being in the closest contact with Roderic, D’Artagnan had kept the young man oblivious to his missing sister. With Athos’ increased workload, he did not need hounding from Roderic fretting over the same reasons and getting under foot when the three of them were perfectly capable of continuing the search, no matter how fruitless the effort was becoming.

Athos wiped his face with his gloved hand, his expression now looking determined.

“I told the others they were expected in the courtyard at one in the afternoon. It wouldn’t do for the interim captain to be late.”

He shoved his hat unceremoniously on his head and pulled on his baldric brusquely. His friends watched all his determined preparation with mingled expressions, feeling the frustration emanating from his whole person. When came time to curl the white scarf around his neck, his movements went from angry and hasty to slow and deliberate, nearly affectionate. Aramis’ eyes softened and he approached his friend and pressed a hand to his shoulder. It was no secret that there was something deeper than a simple communication between a soldier and his captain between Athos and Tréville.

“How is he?” Athos glanced up from putting his gloves back on and stared at Aramis with an air of not knowing whether to be exasperated or sad.

“He is resting. He fully awoke yesterday, but we have reasons to believe that he suffers from several broken ribs. The bruises covering him were definitely not made by his fall off the airship. Buckingham’s men were… enthusiastic, to say the least.”

"We'll make sure that Buckingham and his men get what they deserve," said Porthos, pounding his fist into the palm of his other hand. "But is it really necessary to have so many training sessions?"

Not to say that having to obey Athos was unusual for Porthos and Aramis, the older musketeer having been much of the tactical leader of their elite unit on many missions, but at least they could protest. Porthos had taken many opportunities to jibe Athos about his new position when in private because in public, it would be insubordination. Even Aramis, usually so restrained, could not keep the glint of a mischievous disobedient child from his eye if ever Athos called on him for a task or patrol. That is not to say that Athos treated them with special favour; no, he did no such thing.

Unfortunately, there was little for Athos to say besides, simply, being ready. Patrols continued on schedule, more frequent meetings were being called by the Queen in search of new ideas they had yet to try, and Richelieu was quieter than he had ever been. His presence seemed to truly be diminishing to some slight degree.

“Have you become lazy, Porthos?” Athos’ tone was low, but it could have resonated throughout the hallway, so dripping it was with sneer. “Have you forgotten how we trained, ceaselessly, while in the regular service? Do you perhaps consider that our honour was not lost enough to us by the capture of our King?!”

Porthos stood stunned for a moment then seemed to expand, his expression flaming. He opened his mouth to speak but D'Artagnan, in all his youthful bravado, spoke first.

"Athos, just because your mistress is missing doesn't mean you can rip apart Porthos because he made a little sport on your behalf!" He swallowed as he felt Athos' fierce glare on him, but he did not bite his tongue. "We all know that we lost His Majesty, but we will bring him back won't we? There is being prepared and then there is working everyone into the ground!"

Athos whipped around and backhanded the younger man hard enough to send him tumbling on his back. D’Artagnan laid there for a few seconds, too stunned for words, with a hand on his throbbing reddened cheek. Athos stood over him, glaring murderously.

“You are hardly overworked if you are capable of insubordination. Now, get up and go back to Des Essarts before I have you court marshalled and executed.”

He roughly pulled him on his feet, biting back a wince at the sudden effort, and pushed the younger man on the shoulder in a much gentler fashion than his previous actions. The other two musketeers were speechless. Athos glanced at either of them, uncertain of their thoughts. He walked ahead in the hallway and disappeared at the turn, following the stairs that would lead him to the first floor and the courtyard.

"We'd better get down there as well," said Aramis, reaching for his hat and frowning at the space where Athos had been moments before. 

"Yes, I suppose we must," Porthos sighed, looked down at his boots. "We don't want to be court marshalled and executed after all," he finished in a low growl, trying to imitate Athos. Aramis swatted him.

"Keep making jibes at him and that just might happen, you oaf! D'Artagnan let his mouth run away from him, but he had a point. If Athos was in a better state of mind, he may have recognised that fact, but right now is not the time for reprimands or jokes."

Porthos frowned at the shorter man whom looked up at him sternly from under the very wide brim of his very black hat.

"There's no need to lecture me, Aramis. I can handle Athos as well as you." They left the office silently side by side, but the silence was a little colder than normal.

When the two musketeers reached the courtyard, Athos was already directing a full training, although, instead of watching from a higher position, he was amidst them, teaching, correcting, and demonstrating. As they walked out of the doors, he fell into a demonstration with one of their older comrades, one that had to have become a musketeer years even before any of them had. They circled around each other and exchanged blows with an alacrity that rivalled that of the knights of old, even as Athos described, taught, and educated the younger men surrounding them.

As Aramis and Porthos approached and joined the others, Athos glanced at them and nodded, all traces of tiredness seemingly vanished from his features, leaving only strength, focus and determination. As he finally disarmed his adversary and gave him back his sword, he flashed one of his rare smiles and instructed the blue clad crowd to fight in teams. He wiped the small sheen of sweat that trickled on his brow and joined his two friends again.

“None of these should suffer the aftermath of idleness when the time comes to drive the English out of France,” he stated tranquilly.

Porthos drew his sword, more sabre-like than rapier, and tapped it against Athos' in a silent challenge. Aramis stepped back, drawing a handkerchief from his doublet sleeve and holding it aloft. Athos gave a small sniff and turned to face the giant, crossing their blades. Aramis dropped the kerchief and the fight began, Porthos leading at first as he charged the tired captain, battering against his defence, until Athos slid aside and came at Porthos from a different angle, forcing him back and back. Their bout was drawing a crowd of resting onlookers, kept back at Aramis' discretion, and parting at their own when the two fighters drew too close.

"Come on Athos! Not getting too old are you?" Porthos taunted, flicking his wrist to block a move from Athos on the left then lunging forth, forcing Athos to throw his hands wide and leap back or be jabbed in the belly. Aramis followed them closely, his expression firm but devoid of emotion, determined not to interfere. Athos gritted his teeth in a snarl and came up to block Porthos, smacking down his blade and then going for his arm only for his friend to twist his steel around his own and jerk on it. He felt it slipping from his fingers but gripped tighter and pulled down and free, lowered in a squat and swiping at his lower legs. Porthos hopped back like a rabbit and Athos stood tall again. They were halfway around the yard now, and two thirds of the men had stopped their practise to clear the way.

"I never knew you learned to fight from rabbits Porthos," said Athos with a mirthless chuckle. Porthos snorted as they paced around each other, waiting for their opponent to break his line. Porthos lacked the patience, diving in first again, but Athos was ready, tipping his body past Porthos' blade and very close to his person, his hilt between them. He punched forth with it against the barrel-like chest and Porthos fell back with a wheeze, coughing from the shock of the blow.

Now they were a bit more even; Porthos winded, Athos worn. Their faces were sweaty; Athos' hair was coming free from its tie and sticking to him. They were circling again, like vultures over prey. All the men were watching them now, their training wholly forgotten.

"Ready to give it up?" asked Porthos.

"Never," replied Athos. This time, he led in with the first attack, quickly and suddenly. He went low and when Porthos went to block, he rapidly came up, hooked his hilt and tossed it high in the air above their heads. Now Porthos, being the taller, should have caught it, but Athos rammed his body into that of his friend and threw him back. When Porthos regained his balance five paces away, Athos had landed in a full lunge, his sword in his right hand and Porthos' caught in his left.

Silence reined the courtyard. Musketeers looked to each other, muttering back and forth in surprise, and Porthos panted, reaching up to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Athos released from his stance and stood, offering the hilt of Porthos’ sword back to his friend silently, which Porthos took, lifting it in a brief salute.

“Monsieur Athos!” a voice called, and Athos turned to see a man dressed in the Queen’s livery approaching. Athos nodded to him, allowing him to speak further upon drawing closer.

“Her Majesty has called a meeting and requests your immediate attendance along with Messieurs Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan.”

“You’ll find Monsieur D’Artagnan attending to his duties with the royal guards. Send him along as soon as it is convenient to Monsieur Des Essarts,” ordered Athos. Porthos and Aramis came up on either side of him. “We will go to Her Majesty at once.” The man left and Athos turned to summon the lieutenants, issuing to them instructions in order to keep the training on schedule, as well as any patrols later, before the three left at a swift pace to head for the Palais Cardinal.

The quarters of the Queen, having been put together hastily those days ago, were looking more and more befitting to a woman of her station and her ladies in waiting. Athos briefly noted that several artifacts had been brought from the Louvre, the better, perhaps, to make the Queen feel at home and to further protect them from eluding coveting hands. He allowed a small smile to show on his features at the full body painting of the King that adorned the wall of the antechamber. A fond display of affection or a rather loud message to His Eminence that, despite the fact that Louis was absent from France, he still remained its most sacred representative?

Constance was waiting for them there, and she walked forward with that sweet smile that was only hers and clasped each man’s hand briefly, held back by Aramis as he brushed hers with a breath.

“The Queen is with the Cardinal in her boudoir, and she said to immediately introduce you when you had arrived,” she said, eyes roaming questioningly around the three men.

“Monsieur D’Artagnan will be joining us shortly, Mademoiselle,” said Aramis, guessing at the reason for her slight distraction. “He had to go back to Monsieur Des Essarts for duty but someone was sent to bring him as soon as possible.”

“I understand,” Constance’s smile returned to her lips. She opened the door to the study on the left and walked in, preceding the three gentlemen. Much like the antechamber, the boudoir had been feminized and several pieces of furniture were evidently from the Queen’s own quarters within the Louvre. Anne herself was at the present sitting on a comfortable cushy chair, back straight and hands neatly folded in her lap. Her ladies in waiting were sitting all around her, some in chairs, some on large cushions on the floor, depending upon their rank and their proximity to their gentle yet determined mistress. As the men walked in, the women all stood and curtsied, and then resumed their seating. Anne extended a hand to Athos as he walked forward, and he leaned over it to softly blow on her knuckles.

The Cardinal stood by the window with a cup of wine in his hands, and he watched the scene with an unreadable expression.

“Welcome, captain, gentlemen,” the Queen stated with her customary smile. “Please join us. Someone will come presently to serve you wine and refreshments.”

The three bowed their heads in acquiescence with this and shuffled about, unable to sit due to the lack of chairs. Besides, it was only proper that the women be seated and comfortable. Everyone jumped, however, when a small squeak of a sneeze penetrated the whispers of the ladies and sighs of the men, and all turned to regard the still smiling Queen. She opened her mouth to speak when the door opened again and D'Artagnan rushed in, hastily removing his hat from his head of wind tangled hair and bowing respectfully low, Des Essarts following shortly after, shaking his head.

"Welcome Messieurs" said Anne, holding back a chuckle, "Please do catch your breath Monsieur D'Artagnan. We can wait; Captain de Cavoie has yet to arrive." The gascon nodded in his bow and as he went to straighten, he froze, looking at the Queen's skirts where he could see a tiny hand grasping the fabric. Anne followed his line of sight, looking down for a moment before turning her gaze to Athos.

"Monsieur Athos, someone desperately wished to see you, and so I have her here."

Athos looked momentarily confused until a little girl was gently led out from behind Anne's skirts by Constance, holding her other fist up to her mouth shyly. He hardly recognised her as the same child that he had rescued. Her hair, once pale grey with soot and grime, was now blonde as summer sunshine, brushed, and tied in a long plait with a pretty pink ribbon. She was wearing a peach coloured gown trimmed with white lace and tiny bows, and when she finally looked up; large grey eyes seemed to fill her small, round, rosy face, made larger by her slightly sunken cheeks. She looked nervously at the tall musketeer before her and Constance knelt down to whisper in her ear. She whipped around to stare at the blonde woman in happy surprise, her smile making dimples in her cheeks. She turned back to Athos, lifting her arms.

" 'Sieur ange! You come back!" she cried out in almost a squeal.

"I am afraid she refuses to tell us her name," said Anne with a gentle expression slightly tinted with worry. "Perhaps she will tell you. She has been begging to see you."

Ignoring the audible sniff coming from the side of the Cardinal, the unwilling chortle uttered by Porthos, and the way too fond smile on Aramis’ face, Athos crouched and picked up the toddler, settling her on his right arm, allowing her little hands to cup what she could of his face. He smiled at her and gently poked her tummy.

“How are you, little one?” He asked softly, as she pressed her face into his scarf and hugged him with all her little might. “You have a pretty frock; did Her Majesty lend it to you?”

She pulled away from him and nodded mutely, staring at him with awe in her face that he found hard to look at. He tilted his head sideways and she mimicked him. Somewhere behind them, he heard Porthos and D’Artagnan softly snicker. He grinned.

“What’s your name, child?”

"Me Teh-wez," she said, pointing to herself with her middle finger. "What your name?" She pressed the finger pad firmly against his doublet right above his sternum.

At that moment, de Cavoie entered unnoticed, and he frowned at this fact, followed by two girls carrying trays of glasses and bottles of wine. He approached Richlieu, who was watching the scene unfold whilst barely holding back a sneer. De Cavoie offered a reverence to the holy man and Richelieu nodded at him, waving him towards the serving girls filling the glasses and handing them out.

“Thérèse? I think it suits you. My name,” Athos said, supremely ignoring the impatience pooling around him, “is Athos.”

He made to put her back down on the floor but she whimpered and clung to him. Shaking his head slightly, he accepted a glass of red wine offered by one of the servant girls and drank from it, not without a sense of gratitude. He had not drunk anything since the previous day. The Queen rose from where she sat and walked towards the window, holding her glass in her dainty fingers, exchanging a sideways glance with Richelieu before looking up at the ships littering the sky.

"The reason for this sudden meeting," Anne began, "is that we have finally come to the decision that force is necessary. Buckingham will not release Paris easily, and France needs her King returned by any means possible." She opened her mouth to continue her practised speech when the door flew open again and the same man who had been sent to Athos stumbled in, his face pale.

"Your Majesty, open the window!" he said urgently.

"Monsieur La Porte, what is the meaning of this?" The Queen demanded, setting down her glass down on the sill as she whipped around.

"Please, Your Majesty! Buckingham is speaking!" Now that no one spoke, all of the occupants could hear a slight echo in the distance. Anne did not hesitate; she turned back to the window, accidently knocking her glass aside, and unlatched it, shoving it wide open. Buckingham's voice pierced through loud and clear now in that mocking tone of his that so grated on many nerves.

"-but I suppose I should not bore Your Majesty and Your Eminence with idle chatter and arrive at my point. Let it be known that His Majesty King Louis, the thirteenth of that name, is safe and sound, well accommodated in London, and we are quite willing to return him to you for a price." Here the Englishman paused dramatically, savouring his moment.

“Why that boisterous pr-,” started Porthos under his breath, before being silenced by Aramis pressing his hand on his arm. The musketeer priest shot a quick look at Athos, who stood stock still, listening intently and staring at the sky, at each of the airships in turn, as if searching from whence originated the voice that echoed throughout Paris.

"I will be sending my emissary with the details on the morrow, but my first demand is that Monsieur Athos of the king's _elite_ soldiers be the one to meet with my emissary, who will return to me unharmed and unhindered. If anything obstructs this, there will be destructive consequences. Of course, my warning from before still rests. Should anyone attempt to leave, I will light Paris like a torch." He paused again briefly, but returned just as quick. "Now, Athos, I speak directly to you. Knowing the stubbornness of the French as well as I do, I suspect that my previous request will not be followed, least of all by you. In this case, I am willing to offer you something. I have a friend here whom I am sure would love to speak to you." Again, there was an intolerable silence.

Athos stood even more stiffly, if that was possible. He didn’t seem to notice Thérèse as she buried her face in his doublet, shivering with all her tiny body. The only manifestation that he was listening was the slow whitening of his knuckles around the glass that he was holding.

“What is Buckingham playing at,” mouthed D’Artagnan to Aramis, who simply shook his head quickly, alarmed and attentive. The Queen was paler than a statue made of wax.

"Come now my dear, come say hello. Let Athos know where you are and that you're safe." This was spoken at even more of a distance, it seemed, as those on the ground had to strain their ears to hear it. Silence followed again but then Buckingham's voice returned more forceful, closer to his speaking device, whatever it was.

"I tell you speak stupid girl else I will have you thrown from this ship!" Suddenly a tremulous voice broke through, nervous and fearful, that of a young woman. 

"Athos, I really hope you can hear me, that this is not another of their lies. I want to go home; I don't like it here. It's so cold..."

Something shattered in the silence that followed these few words, and Thérèse shrieked, the sound of her voice resounding like a thunderclap in the entire room. Athos’ glass had broken under his grip, and he was now only gripping shards harshly. Blood dripped on his wrist and fell to the carpet, where it pooled, dark, amidst the pieces that had fallen. And yet, he did not appear to notice at all.

“Orianne,” he murmured, so quietly that not even the now crying toddler heard him. The Queen held her hand in front of her mouth, the ladies seemed mute with horror, D’Artagnan, Aramis and even Porthos seemed to have the wind taken out of their lungs. Des Essarts and De Cavoie remained near the window, chewing on their moustaches.

Richelieu was staring outside the window much like Athos, his glass long since left on the table, and he seemed deep in thought.

Orianne, oblivious to everything on the ground below, continued on, growing bolder in tone. She talked about the clouds, and how they looked like soft fluffy sheep; she spoke of how nice the people had been, letting her sew while she was locked in a room. She quieted for a moment then continued.

"I did get in trouble though for playing with Monsieur Buckingham's toys. He had left them all over this table outside, and he does not know how to play with them right. There were boats and little men all gathered around this one area named--"

"Get her away from there!!" Buckingham interrupted with a roar.

"What did I say? What did I do?" Orianne yelped. They could hear her struggle.

"Do not say another word or I will have you shot!"

"But what is wrong with saying La Rochelle?"

A savage gleam of triumph and pride flashed in Athos’ eyes, and he lowered them to lock stares with Des Essarts, who had gone rigid with knowing.

“Alert the generals,” said Athos simply, his voice very unlike his whole demeanour.

“The princes, the generals, the armies… This is our chance!” yelled the royal guards’ captain, and he picked up his hat, readied his sword and stormed out of the room.

Richelieu didn’t even try to quell this sudden burst of determination and activity. The ladies were all talking at the same time with each other; the Queen’s eyes were gleaming with the same vivid light as Athos’, and the same resolve.

“Sangdiable d’enfer, anglais infernal, we’ll have that wretched fool by the throat! Par la mort de Dieu!” Porthos bellowed for everyone to hear and no one to pay much attention to.

Thérèse peeled her face away from the cloth now that Buckingham's overpowered voice had gone, her nose dribbling a little. Aramis approached and Thérèse hid her face again.

"Athos, your hand needs attention," he said quietly. Athos stared down at his bloodied hand, vaguely surprised. He had hardly even felt the glass.

"You wretched, idiotic girl!" bellowed Buckingham suddenly. Thérèse covered her ears with a terrified scream. There was the nasty, heart-stopping sound of a pistol firing then finally, total silence.

**_The little historical tidbit: swear words… They stem from swearing upon sacred symbols or names, or cursed ones, such as God, Christ, the devil, and many church artifacts as well. Most Quebec swearwords are still like that today, whilst in France, they have moved onto more sexual terms, which are more current, swearwords of the English language._ **


	22. The Captain, the King, and the Captive

Within moments of the silence following Buckingham's final words, the doors to the chamber flew open and struck the wall with a vicious crack, revealing Roderic scarlet faced, breath hissing between his fiercely clenched teeth, and his figure seeming to tower over most of the men in his blatant fury. Sighting D'Artagnan, he roared like a beast and threw himself at the younger man, fingers itching to grab at any part of him.

"You lying, filthy French swine, I'll tear you to pieces and scatter you over the Seine!" D'Artagnan fended off the clutches of the infuriated German until Roderic finally caught his throat and jerked him up against the wall. His feet dangling uselessly, the Gascon desperately clawed at the gloved hand that held him pinned and which was cutting off his air flow.

The Queen yelped and practically ducked behind a surprised Richelieu. Aramis and Porthos were the first to overcome their shock and fly to the rescue of their younger comrade. It was not long before Porthos pried Roderic’s fingers away from D’Artagnan’s throat, and the young guard fell to the floor, gasping and coughing for breath.

Athos still stood by the window, or rather leaned against it, face ashen, rendered mute from shock. In his right arm, the little Thérèse had her two small hands firmly clamped over her eyes, her entire frame racked with sobs.

"Calm down lad,” Porthos demanded, dragging Roderic backwards into the centre of the room, his arms wrapped under the flailing man's. Aramis went to D'Artagnan's side, along with Constance, and helped him stand and steady himself.

"Are you alright D'Artagnan?" asked Aramis. Constance fretted, biting the rouge from her lips with worry. D'Artagnan waved Aramis off then rubbed at his throat, coughing more.

"Don't worry about me," he half-croaked. Roderic snarled and threw up his legs much in the manner of an unbroken stallion trying to shake its rider, but with much less success as Porthos had braced his feet firmly and tightened his arms to keep the Guardsman trapped. Then, he spotted Athos facing away from him and stilled. His expression became glacial. If his eyes could have thrown daggers, there would be hundreds piercing the interim captain's turned back.

"I trusted that Devil's fiend," said Roderic, his accent thick and his words biting.

"You still can trust him!" said Porthos indignantly, but Roderic ignored him entirely, choosing instead to strain towards Athos, hate now marking every inch of his features.

"My sister is dead because of you!" he roared, spittle flying as he fell into a mix of French and his Teutonic tongue. " _Mörder_! Look at me when I speak to you, _feigling_!"

Thérèse removed her hands from her eyes and looked around frighteningly. She held her arms out pleadingly at Constance, who looked hesitantly at Roderic, and then practically ran around him to relieve Athos of the young girl. His eyes had somewhat glazed over and he allowed the lady in waiting to take away the child without trying to hold back.

He barely heard the insults that Roderic was yelling. Right there, in the forefront of his mind, the thundering shot still resounded, again, and again. His heart hammered painfully against his chest, his mouth was dry, his shoulders tense enough to break. He could not help the vivid image of Orianne that seemed etched against his skull, and staring at it seemed to make it ten times more painful.

What did this mean? Why did he feel that way? How could he even feel anything at all?

Athos turned around and exchanged a look with everyone in the room. The Cardinal stared at him with a somewhat shrewd expression, the Queen with anxiety, Aramis and Porthos with obvious worry. His gaze finally fell on Roderic and he held his glare, vainly trying to form words to respond to him. The expression on his features was such that Porthos unwillingly relaxed his hold on the young guard, who, the moment he felt he was loose, lunged at Athos and gripped the front of his doublet in a fist. He raised the other high in the air… and a sob racked his entire frame.

Athos blinked. Roderic was now clutching his cloak and doublet and had his face buried in his shoulder. He slowly raised his arms and awkwardly circled the youth with them, unsure what to do, what to say. He felt an odd sensation in his throat and a tickling sensation along his cheek. He raised a hand to his cheek and pulled it back wet from the single tear that had fallen from his left eye to get lost into his beard.

“I tried so hard to keep her safe, to give her happiness,” Roderic babbled feverishly through his tears, his fist tapping weakly against Athos’ breast in some vague gesture of his anger beneath the grief. “Oh Lord, oh Maman, forgive your son for this failure!”

“Perhaps, Monsieur Athos, you would care to take your _problems_ elsewhere,” said Richelieu, clearing his throat. “As tragic as this loss of life is, there is still a war to be fought and we must prepare—”

“Enough Cardinal,” snapped Anne suddenly. “This young man is grieving for his sister, that brave girl who informed us of Buckingham’s plot to aid the Huguenots, and we should treat this with the due respect it deserves.” She turned her attention to Athos.

“This meeting is adjourned until tomorrow. I do not think any of us have a mind for war strategy at this time.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Aramis, noticing that Athos seemed so far away from the moment. Roderic suddenly pulled back from the sombre man, wiping angrily at his face to glare through puffy eyes. Athos regarded him blankly, as of yet unsure of his voice.

“I will have that Protestant’s head!” he declared.

“You will do no such thing,” said Athos slowly, his tone grave with contained emotion. “You may as well take your own life for all the good it will do.”

“What would you know about doing any good? You, whose words of honour are worth less than the street refuse? I will kill Buckingham. I will avenge Orianne or I will die,” said Roderic, his face firm, his jaw taught. “Do not attempt to stop me.” He spun on his heel and marched out, shoving D’Artagnan back when the Gascon tried to grab his elbow to halt him.

***

Surrounded by three thick stone walls, a moat and the Thames River, the Tower of London was an intricate, confusing complex. The high battlements behind the moat were less manned than what would normally be required, but when in war, some sacrifices had to be made, and none expected the French to attempt another attack like the one that had started this. The White Tower at the centre of the expansive courtyards which were encased within the Inner Ward, and littered with the barracks, kitchen, hospital, and chapel, was under heavy reconstruction on the southern face. Tall, spindly looking scaffolding had been erected, and a counter weighted system aided the stone masons in bringing their bricks up to the blast site as they chipped away the sharp edges to make the way clear for repairs. The work was noisy; there was a constant yelling of orders, and swearing from the workers below as chips and dust covered them while they loaded fresh bricks and mud.

“Come on, you lazy lot! Milord Duke will not be pleased by any means if his office is not rebuilt by the end of this war!”

Louis sighed as he looked down onto the workers from his half hidden position behind the window up in the tower. By chance or by design, when they had brought him in, unconscious, from that accursed airship (the devil alone knew why he had wanted one even for a second!), Buckingham’s men had imprisoned him in a room just above the area where heavy repairs were being done. From the moment that he had roused from his slumber the next morning, to the very late hours of the night, his ears had been ringing with the constant rapping of hammers, the whine of the saws and the shouts of the workers, whom all seemed to be much too zealous to Louis’ taste.

He moved away from the window and gripped his temples between his hands, pacing the floor for what was perhaps the hundredth time in three days.

“I am the King of France! These men have no right to be working all hours of the day and night, keeping me from my sleep,” he muttered disdainfully. “I will have words with whoever should come through that door. I will not be treated thus!”

He approached the heavy door, banded and studded with iron, and tried to push open the small window through which not even his whole hand could fit, but to no avail. His jailers had locked it and kept it so from after the first day, when he had awaked and annoyed them with his complaints and demands. He only saw one man day in and day, the one who brought him his meals, and it seemed as if Time taunted him with its crawling pace, allowing him languish in his internal miseries. Was Tréville alive? Did Anne worry for him? Had France been beaten? When was he to return home? These questions dogged him incessantly and he found no relief in their unknown answers.

The lock on his door clicked and he perked up like one of his prized hounds who had caught the scent of a robust young stag. Ah, food at last!

The door opened and a man somberly dressed in black, face half hidden by a large brimmed hat, slowly came inside the room and stood stock still. Two servants precipitously came behind him, carrying trays of food and a pitcher of what Louis could tell was a decent quality red wine. He quirked an eyebrow at the silent figure that stood at a respectable distance, mute, while the two servants bustled around the table to set the meal, bowed briefly to His Majesty and promptly ran back out the door. Louis followed their movements and half wished he could run out with them. Instead, he held his ground and looked at the dark figure up and down with mixed contempt and curiosity.

The minutes crept on seemingly for an eternity, as neither the black clad man nor the king seemed to want to break the silence first. Louis growled and the man blinked slowly, his eyes lidded, his posture exuding a mixture of duty with a hint of insolence. The King moved about like a caged animal for several moments until he could no longer support the unchanging neutrality of his 'guest' and spoke harshly.

"Why do you say nothing?!" he demanded imperiously. "Is it because you prefer to secretly mock my despair and my circumstances as, I am sure, all the English do?"

“Is Your Majesty comfortable?”

Louis’ mouth shut as quickly as it had opened and he gawked at his interlocutor as if he had suddenly grown a second head. “I uh- what?”

“Is Your Majesty agreeable to how you are being treated? Are your needs tended to?”

The tone was even, patient, and it seemed to Louis to even further grate his already frazzled nerves. He glared scathingly at his jailer and turned around, preferring to address the foot of the bed as to not show his discomposure.

“My needs would be best tended to in France – where I belong!”

“I regret to inform Your Majesty that returning to France is indeed out of the question. We will however make every effort to make your stay more… pleasant.

A contemptuous sniff was all that came as a reply. Unbeknownst to Louis, the dark-clad man turned to the door and motioned to a yet-to-be seen person to come in. which said person immediately obeyed. The noise of footsteps caused Louis to turn around. He raised his eyebrows at the newcomer, a boy who could be no older than twelve. He had clear, intelligent grey eyes and mouse brown hair which had been neatly cut after the fashion of the Huguenots, which, to Louis’ taste, was entirely too short. Despite this, the boy had a pleasant disposition, and he smiled good-naturedly as he bowed to him.

His expression and behaviour pleased Louis, and his features relaxed somewhat. He looked at the black-clad man, who had, much to his obvious custom, remained silent. “Who is this young boy?”

“If it pleases you, he will be attached to your person and he will see to your needs.”

“Does he have a name?” asked Louis sarcastically.

“His name is Thomas. He has been taught to speak French from the cradle.”

Louis turned to the child and gently rested two fingers on his shoulder. “Rise,” he said simply, and the boy obeyed promptly. The king allowed a small smile to err on his face. It would be good, at least, to have company that knew how to speak a decent language!

“I will leave you to your meal, if it so pleases to Your Majesty. Should you need anything, Thomas will communicate it to me and I will see to do everything in my power for you to have it.”

The King bit his lip and nodded briefly, but otherwise gave no other reply. The black clad man took it as his leave, and turned to head out the door, when he felt the King press a hand to his elbow. He froze mid-step and waited.

“Can I at least know your name?”

“My name, Sire, is Felton. I wish you a good day.”

****

The _Écu de France_ tavern was in quite a stir when a carriage pulled up before their establishment and a beautiful noblewoman exited from it, the hood of her cloak pulled up to rest on the crown of her copper curls. She drew in a deep breath and smiled charmingly towards a group of children. Purse in hand, she approached them and they stared up at her with unsure expressions.

“Would anyone be willing to take a letter to the Louvre for me? There will be some gold for you,” she added as an afterthought. Suddenly, the children were practically jumping on top of each other to be the one she chose. She turned her finger in the air, contemplating their eager fresh faces until she decided upon a boy whose greasy, shorter brown hair and slightly singed attire labelled him as a blacksmith’s son. The others dispersed as the boy approached and Milady handed him both the letter and a half-pistole as she gave her instructions.

“Go to the Palais Cardinal and ask for Monsieur Athos. If he is not there, you are to find out where he is and make sure you give this directly to him. Return to me once you have and I will give you another coin.”

The boy was gone as soon as the final word left her mouth and she turned on her heel to enter the tavern. She grinned at the familiar interior, where she had met Athos and his friends on more than one occasion during certain missions they had done more than a year ago. So many happy memories, and even… She glanced up at the second floor where she knew of certain room that had seen a lot of she and Athos, and a very discreet, quick shade of pink crossed her cheeks at the remembrance.

“What could I do for you today, Madame?”

The rough voice of the tavern keeper roused her from her slight reverie and she tilted her head with that studied coy smile she knew to give when she wanted men to give her the moon.

“I need a room for a private meeting, Monsieur, a room where I am certain I will suffer no interruptions.”

As Milady was completing her preparations, the little blacksmith boy had set on a fast pace towards the middle of Paris. His small but strong legs carried him faster than it could be expected all the way to the Palais Cardinal, where he paused, looking at the tall metal gates for a moment, scratching his head. Nonplussed by the challenge, he ran along the wall until he found what he was looking for; a tree running up and over the obstacle. He climbed along it nimbly and allowed himself to gracefully and silently fall to his feet in the wilting flowers on the other side. The garden was still vibrant despite the early fall chill, and he could hear voices muffled by the plants as people passed. He waited until they had gone then slipped out between two bushes and followed a cobbled path that soon broke the cover of the trees and revealed the Palais to his young eyes. There were musketeers standing on the steps, talking with each other, and looking slightly out of place around a building traditionally surrounded by red capes. 

Nonplussed by the presence of the blue uniforms walking about, the youth slid quietly from bush to bush alert and wary of every noise and watching any and every twig to make sure he missed them all. He grinned as he finally made his way to the bush that lined double doors of the main entrance. He wasn’t going to use said doors though, certain not. The youth kept on creeping forth, eyes set on his objective, in occurrence, the servant door that stood about twenty feet to his right. As he approached it, he paused, letting two musketeers go by and waiting to see if any other would come close. The cost seemed clear. The boy stood, opened the door quietly and fell nose to belt with a large musketeer, who clapped his hand on his shoulder.

“Where do you think you are going, boy?”

The boy looked up and up, craning his neck to see the man’s mustached face, his distinct lack of hair, and the strange earring dangling from the side of his head. He gulped and his mouth opened fish-like for several moments.

“Well, speak up!” said Porthos impatiently. “I should have thrown you out by now.”

“I have a message for Monsieur Athos,” blurted out the boy. “Where can I find him?”

Porthos broke into a huge smile, and patted his head rather gently for his stature.

“I’ll bring you to him. He’s being all high and sulky in that office of his, and maybe you and I will be able to take him back down to reality, eh?”

Some eyebrows were raised as Porthos led the boy through the Palais, but none dared ask why. His stature alone was a deterrent, increased by his reputation for cracking a skull first and asking questions never. The boy half ran, half trotted behind him to keep up with his long strides that led him through an expansive hall, up a flight of white marble stairs, and down a long corridor until they reached a dark wood door. Porthos rapped against it with his knuckles then opened the door without waiting for a summons. The boy waited in the doorway, looking unsure.

"Come on in, boy," he said, waving in the young messenger. "Athos isn't in any mood to bite today, or any other day recently."

Looking up at Porthos, the boy opened his mouth to speak but the giant shook his head then proceeded to wander the room. The boy then approached the desk, drawing a letter from inside the doublet he was wearing and extending it to Athos as he did. Once Athos had taken it, the boy bowed and left in a hurry, his face eager with anticipation.

Athos turned the envelope and his eyes narrowed as he saw words written with excessive flourish. He frowned, broke the seal off swiftly and unfolded the letter, which he read carefully.

It read as follows:

_Monsieur Athos,_

_There are many who are looking forward to your company in the vicinity of the clouds. To that effect, and following our previous ‘conversation’, you will find our emissary waiting for you at the Écu de France this morning with further instructions to be followed closely. Simply tell the keeper that there will be a louis d’or for him if he shows you the way. Oh and, ensure you are not followed. I am certain you can appreciate by now the gravity of such a warning._

_In hopes that this letter finds you well,_

_George Villiers,_

_Duke of Buckingham_

“A plague be upon you, floating ostentatious peacock! And I hope that I will find you strangled with the quill you used to write this rag!”

"By God Athos, you finally spoke!" declared Porthos, his voice full of mock surprise. "And here I thought you had become more pious than Aramis and had taken a vow of silence!"

“Leave off, Porthos,” Athos sighed, though the colour that had appeared on his cheeks didn’t quite vanish. “You cannot possibly have come only to introduce the boy, so get on with it. What do you want to tell me? Is there anything amiss in the patrols?”

"No, no, nothing wrong there," he said lightly. "I assume this was the summons from Buckingham we have all been waiting for, and you're going to march on over to meet this emissary of his?"

Athos nodded, and carefully refolded the letter back. “I must go alone. Buckingham must have set watchers over the rendezvous point. I am quite certain that I will not encounter much danger there. Do try your best at keeping anyone from following me, please, Porthos?”

He stood from his chair and threw the letter into the dying flames in the grate, which revived with a little more energy now that they had something to feast upon.

"I am really not the best at this sort of thing," said Porthos chewing on his mustache irritably. "This is more Aramis' expertise, but I guess I could try. Don't do anything stupid, Athos. Whatever was going on between you and that girl, her death is not worth adding yours as well. Her brother is already going to try to add his own."

Athos opened his mouth to reply and then seemed to change his mind. He patted Porthos’ upper arm as he passed him on his way out the door, a gesture that was worth more than an entire speech.

The sunlight greeted him as he stepped out of the Palais Cardinal, and he squinted at it, having been cooped up inside for at least two days. He felt somewhat invigorated and wondered briefly why he had done so earlier before setting at a brisk pace towards the stables, not feeling particularly intent on a long walk to the edge of the city. Ephaïstos, a startling black stallion he had managed to befriend in that short lapse of time, whinnied at the sight of him, looking almost like he was beckoning. A small grin crossed his lips and he approached the large beast, petting his forehead briefly before pulling his tack off the side of the stall and setting about to harness his mount. A few moments later, he burst out of the stables at a comfortable speed, saluted two or three random musketeers still wandering about, and galloped towards the rendezvous point, feeling the wind pick up and whip into his face with relish.

At the Écu de France, Roderic was seated in the tavern struggling to stay awake, a flagon of beer sitting before him on the table. He leaned forward against the table, pressing his palms into his tired, swollen eyes. He had taken on double shifts for the past two days in order to see when the emissary arrived, his energy fueled by his grief, his anger, and his cold need for vengeance. He had taken a little time to seek out spiritual guidance, pausing to light a candle for Orianne and say his prayers in order to speed her soul to Heaven and also to beg forgiveness for himself for what he was trying to do. No signs of Providence could save him now.

He was waiting; waiting for a different sort of sign that led him not to salvation, but to his damnation, one of which he was impatient to find. He was unsure of the woman who had arrived – there was no way that the English would send a woman to be their emissary – and his insecurity in his motives was beginning to gnaw at him. Maybe this was a mistake? No one was allowed in or out, so there could be no mistake, but was he capable of convincing her to take him with her and then murdering her master? _Murder_ , he thought, _is such a twisted game_.

The tavern door opened with the slightest creek and Athos walked inside, scanning the area rapidly. His gaze swept over the prostrate figure in the corner, without recognizing him. Roderic felt a cold shudder run along his spine at the appearance of the musketeer, and then relief washed over him as Athos walked toward the counter without sparing him a second glance.

The tavern keeper put down a mug he was polishing with a cloth, and peered at Athos closely from under a thick curtain of very greasy hair.

“What can I do to serve you, Monsieur?”

“There is someone here with whom I have business. There is a louis d’or for you if you show me the way.”

The keeper nodded and took a large candle from the wall behind him to light the way despite the fact that it was broad daylight. “If you will please come along, Monsieur, I will show you the room.”

They ascended the steps to the second floor and made their way to the very back of the hall, passing many doors, all identical except for the small wooden letter that had been pinned on each panel. Athos paused at number two, a room that held many memories…

“Are you coming, Monsieur?”

He shook his head and kept walking. The keeper fished out a large set of keys from underneath the folds of his apron, and he unlocked number eight. The lock squeaked as it gave, and the keeper pulled back to allow Athos to walk in alone.

“I wish you a pleasant evening, Monsieur.”

With this, the keeper left Athos to return to his duties. The musketeer frowned at the dubious words, shrugged and pushed the panel of the room. The drapes over the window had been carefully closed and not even a sliver of sunshine penetrated the atmosphere. It felt oddly like walking into a darn cavern. He looked around as he made his way in.

“Hello?”

As Athos entered, the door slowly shut behind him with a long, drawn out squeal. Milady peered at him from her hiding spot behind it, her hand shielding the light of the candle she held. Her lips turned up at the corners briefly as she admired their situation, the two of them alone in the dark. It was almost quaint in a way.

"I was wondering if you would ever arrive," she said in a sweet tone, taking her hand away from the flame to allow the light to flow freely. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Athos."

He whirled around and his eyes grew very wide. He stood there for what seemed like the longest time, staring at the face of impossibility. Even the air around them seemed to have completely stilled. She simply stood where she was with her sweet smile. After what appeared to be an eternity, the musketeer took two or three hesitant steps forward and slowly reached towards Milady’s face with his hand. Before the fingers could touch her pale skin, however, he turned back around and strolled to the window, where he practically tore the curtains aside to let the sunshine flood into the room. There he stood, unsure whether or not he should turn around, whether what had just happened was but an illusion. He didn’t want to, couldn’t… Could he?

“You…” His voice had been barely above a whisper, yet it carried back to her as clearly as if he had spoken out loud. Milady’s smile widened further.

“Me.”

“How..?”

"Buckingham. I have always been very lucky." There was a brief whisper of breath as she blew out the candle and a slight tap of metal on wood as she set the holder down on the table in the room. She crept up behind him and slid her hands up the back of his shoulder blades, feeling the striking tension under the fabric of his doublet, and rested her hands on the tops of his shoulders, giving a light squeeze. She stretched to his ear, her lips almost brushing the lobe.

"Have you missed me Athos?"

He shivered and closed his eyes, trying not to think at all the times when that same voice had murmured sweet nothings to him, at moments past when there had been nothing to separate them. His mind was a chaos of feelings and emotions, a turmoil which he could make nothing of. Faint images crossed his mind: Milady at a ball at the Louvre, Milady at Da Vinci’s vault, dodging bolts and spiked bullets, Milady on the airship, teetering over the edge…

He turned around and pulled her to him. Before she could as much as blink in surprise, he leaned in and captured her mouth with his, pushing forth all the torment and all the confusion he had felt during the past few months. Had it truly been only a few? He knew not. He cradled her neck in his hand as he kissed her, profoundly.

She was stunned at first, but quick to respond, snaking a hand up about the back of his neck as she fought against his mouth with her own. Still, something felt a little off, a little different, and when they separated, the change became more marked in her mind. While his kiss had been that of a desperate, perhaps dreadfully lonely, man, there was none of the heat behind it that had been key to the enjoyment for them both before. She swept her tongue across her lips thoughtfully with a hum and observed him, his expression near to impossible to read except for the tiredness blatantly displayed under his eyes.

“I suppose I could take that a yes,” she said with a smirk.

He gulped audibly and wiped his hand down his face. And then he remembered the purpose of his presence there, and his whole demeanour cooled considerably.

“You are Buckingham’s emissary.” He said, more as a remark then a question.

"I am," she said, tilting her head. She paused and stiffened when there were steps outside the door, narrowing her eyes towards the closed portal, but when the steps moved away she relaxed. She lifted a hand to the top of her bodice, which really wasn't that far up her chest regardless, and rested it there, turning back to the Athos with raised brows.

"Surely you do not want to discuss business so quickly? We have not seen each other in some time; it would be good to talk, wouldn't you say?"

He looked at her for a few seconds as though at loss for words. The magical moment had passed; the feelings of betrayal and anger were galloping back fast. He pulled a chair and motioned for her to sit, ever the gentleman despite the heavy feelings. Following suite, he sat in the other chair, holding his back straight in contrast with her relaxed posture. As she peered at him, quirking an amused eyebrow, he shook his head and half threw his hands into the air.

“All right, let us talk then. What is there to say after… after all this?”

She blinked, confusion now laced with the playfulness. “After all of what?”

He stared at her as if it was as obvious as the nose on his face. “Venice! The diamonds! What have you! Why, just why?”

Milady sighed, closing her eyes and shaking her head slowly, her curls swaying lightly with the movement.

“I had hoped that you might have been able to let that go by now. It has been over a year, Athos. I already answered that question for you, but I shall repeat myself: I was made a better offer.” She opened her eyes to his unchanged, bitter expression and she frowned.

“I am a survivor Athos, you and I both are. Being controlled by another in a situation such as, say, marriage is not suitable for either one of us.”

“Anne! All of this was not a question of control, but of loyalty! You are French, pardieu, we are from the same region! And besides, you were and still are sitting in the lap of luxury, how much more do you need to ‘survive’?”

He made to stand up to start pacing, but then changed his mind and crossed his hands on the table. “There is something deeper to why you chose to betray France… betray me… to England, to Buckingham. There has to be.”

“Not matter what I say; you will think that until the day you die. Let us speak of other matters then,” she smiled, giving a slight shrug. “Let me ask you a question that has been bothering me.”

She leaned towards him, displaying herself blatantly as she set her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her raised hands.

“How long have you been ‘cradle robbing’ I believe the saying goes?”

The look of anger etched in Athos’ face melted into one of complete bewilderment. He opened his mouth to reply and remained gaping at her for a moment, before realising how stupid he looked. “I… what?”

"Your new mistress, Athos, that young girl you taught to read. Surely she is not that forgettable? She had some vague charm about her when I met her. Orianne, yes?"

The moment her name was mentioned, his eyes grew hard and his features became rigid. He pulled back from the table and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Do not speak of her.”

"Why ever not?" asked Milady, stunned. "I thought you would have loved to hear about her. I should probably warn you that she was not at all innocence like I thought, and I am sure you did too. See this scar?" She pointed at the line that stretched from near her eye to down her cheek. "She gave this to me; took a knife from your table and attacked me after I had given her the very toxin I gave you in Venice. Such a clumsy child, she spilled the rest. It makes me wonder what you see in someone so... pure."

He sharply stood from his chair and slammed his closed fist on the table. The wood gave a crack. “I said, DO NOT SPEAK OF HER!”

His words echoed in the silence, and he glared heatedly at her from the opposite end of the table. Then he winced. He looked down at his left hand and noticed with consternation that the still recent wounds in his palm had started to seep blood again. He closed his hand over the mess and took his seat again, a little calmer. He looked at Milady and his gaze fell on the thin line that adorned her cheek, which he had indeed noticed before but had not thought much of. Now that he knew where it had come from, he felt an odd sense of pride. Orianne had put up a brave fight. The feeling quickly dissipated into the now familiar throb of pain, which he could not prevent from showing through on his face as he spoke the next few words. “Do not speak of her, not while her blood is still red on your hands.”

She blinked at him, obviously confused for a moment or two, before realization struck her and her coy mask adorned her face once more. She did not, however, obey his tempered demand; such a notion held no sway with her.

“She really did some nice work with lace. Did she have any family or was she just another poor little seamstress?”

“Actually, she had me, Madame,” said a voice from behind her. In Athos’ outburst, neither had heard the telltale squeak of the door as it opened. Roderic stood there, his dark hair scraggly as if hands had clawed through it, his eyes bloodshot, and his breath had a faint stench of beer. Milady stared the young German.

“And who are you, young man?”

“That does not matter. I was her brother, and you know the man who took her from me. I wish to have words with him.”

“Foolish boy,” Athos exclaimed, standing as to make himself a barrier between Roderic and Milady. “You are not supposed to be here! Leave!”

Roderic ignored Athos entirely, his focus entirely on Milady. The woman smiled widely, a simple expression turned sinister by her recent scar.

"Well, you must tell me your name my dear! I can hardly announce you to Milord Duke without one," she stated. "Athos, you never mentioned knowing such a charming young man. How silly of you!"

"My name is Roderic. You do not need to know any more than that. Will you take me to this Duke of yours?"

"So you may kill him in vengeance?" she asked in false innocence.

"So I may ask him a question," said Roderic flatly.

"But how ever did you find me here? Did you accompany Athos?"

"No, Madame, I did not. I followed you from the walls of Paris on my own volition. I have no association with this false gentleman." Milady considered him carefully, as if she was making a purchase and not deciding on taking a captive.

"Very well. I could use an escort on my return, and I think you will do nicely." She looked up at Athos, shaking her head, and walked around the musketeer to approach Roderic. Suddenly, she drew a small pistol from within the fold of her skirt and grabbed Roderic by the arm, pressing the muzzle into the young man’s ribs.

“Step aside Athos. I should be on my way.”

“Don’t do this, Anne. Let the boy go. This is between Buckingham and I, we all know it.”

She pretended to be thinking about it. “Hmm… How about… no. Oh and, by the way, this is for you.”

She slightly pulled away from her captive and reached into her corset, withdrawing a scroll of parchment sealed in red. “These are Buckingham’s terms. He wants monetary restitution, a public admission of defeat, and your head on a silver platter; the usual. Oh and remember, Athos: no visible weapons.”

She threw the parchment on the table and pulled Roderic along as she left the room, not without addressing a last coy smile at the seething musketeer. “I’ll see you soon enough.”


	23. Flights and Reunions

With a mighty creek, the large gold trimmed airship was lowered, and Roderic watched this large construction looming over him with more than just a small lump in his throat. He stood readily enough at Milady’s left, however, and steadily walked up the ramp as it was lowered, following the ginger spy with barely a tremor in his entire body. After the brilliant light from outside, the ship appeared quite dark; Milady was obviously not disturbed by this, as she clapped a hand to his collar and brought him forward quicker. He pushed her hand away and followed, distinguishing more and more as his eyes grew accustomed to the weaker light.

He felt a mighty lurch and instantly knew that the ship was now airborne.

“Follow me, Teuton,” Milady crooned with a smirk. “It would not be good for you to remain behind.”

The base of the airship was an arsenal of weapons, which held Roderic’s attention as he walked by them, awe and horror mixed in his face. There was enough ammunition here, he thought, to set at least half of Paris alight in a moment! And to say that there were at least dozens of these equally armed airships all over the city, ready to drop death upon its inhabitants at a moment’s notice!

But it mattered little to him now. He glanced at Milady’s back as she led him to some steps, and he briefly closed his eyes and grasped the cross he wore underneath his shirt, the image of Orianne floating to the forefront of his thoughts and making his heart thump painfully against his ribcage. He would soon exert revenge upon her murderer, or die trying…

The steps led them up onto a landing where there was a lone door and more stairs leading further up. Roderic gave a snuff as some hair tickled at his nose, blown in the way by the breeze coming from above. Milady looked back at him, smiled, and stopped him, laying a hand on his chest. He shied away from her touch, and back down a step.

"Wait here. There is someone I need to get," and she turned to continue climbing and disappeared into the sunlight above. As he waited, Roderic muttered quick prayer for his success, having untied the top of his doublet to reach through and touch the metal cross with a finger. Milady returned quickly with two men, one of whom grabbed at Roderic's arm and pulled him against the wall so his partner could squeeze by and take the other. The landing now feeling quite stuffy and cramped, Milady lifted a hand and rapped lightly on a panel of the door before her.

"Enter!"

Milady promptly pushed the panel forward and slipped through, agile like a snake. Roderic squinted against the now blinding light, not distinguishing anything before the door was closed again. He shuffled uncertainly on his feet as the two Englishmen on either side of him chortled quietly.

Buckingham stood at the window near his desk with his hands behind his back. Milady half smiled as she saw the bright golden hue of his suit and the impossibly long plumes that adorned his matching hat. Was there ever going to be a limit to the vanity of the duke? He turned around and beckoned to her, entirely misinterpreting her expression.

“Everything went as expected, I trust?” he asked, his voice purring low as he circled her waist with an arm on her approach, and pulled her to him provocatively.

Milady hummed and slowly caressed the fabric on his chest with the palm of her hand as if to feel its softness. She leaned forward with a half pout, expectantly. However, much to her surprise, he pushed her away, eyes growing dark.

“Your lips… You kissed him, didn’t you?!” Milady blinked at the accusation and rolled her eyes slightly, shrugging her shoulders.

“Must you be so jealous and possessive? It isn’t as though there actually was a competition there.” Buckingham gnashed his teeth at this reply, which was a little too ambiguous for his taste. Milady bristled and moved to the table, where she picked up a random piece of parchment to give herself some composure.

“Listen, he did it too quickly for me to be able to do anything about it! He had thought me dead and well… I am rather talented at securing the affections of whomsoever I wish, you know.”

Her coyness had returned with her last words, and Buckingham turned around brusquely. “It doesn’t look like you offered him much of a resistance afterwards,” he pouted harshly, crossing his arms over his chest. Milady crooked an eyebrow and waved her finger at him with the air of a mother admonishing a particularly petulant child.

“Such an attitude, Milord… All of this after I have brought you a present, too…” She sighed dramatically, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead in a startlingly convincing show of turmoil. He looked at her for a few moments and bit at his moustache as though fighting an inner battle. “All right then. What have you brought me?”

“I’m sure you’ll be quite pleased,” Milady said, instantly recovering from her ‘trouble’ and sauntering to the door, where she sent him a most eloquent ardent gaze. “Bring him in,” she told someone behind the panel, and the door opened further. Buckingham crooked an eyebrow as one of his men ushered a stranger through, a man whose haggard traits and dark-circled eyes proclaimed he’d had a very harsh few days.

“What have we here?” Buckingham approached and raised a small hunting crop he had gathered from his desk to the newcomer’s face, lifting his chin slightly with it to better see his features at the light of the window. “Your traits are somewhat familiar, yet I do not think I have the honour of your acquaintance. Who is this man?”

The last were addressed to Milady, who smiled mischievously, but said nothing.

“My name is Roderic,” said the young man, bitterness unmistakeable in his tone. “I am here to exact retribution, to seek justice from those who have wronged me.”

The duke scoffed slightly at this, and glanced briefly at Milady, who took great pains to hide the mirth gleaming in her eyes. Buckingham gave back his attention to Roderic, who was standing at attention, though his eyes bore through the nobleman as though trying to scorch him alive. Unfazed, the nobleman paced a moment before the young man, examining him as though he was a curious foreign artifact or a particularly fascinating horse at a fair. “You speak French, yet it is obvious from your accent that you are not from this country,” he said, entirely disregarding Roderic’s words in favour of his own thoughts and observations. “Now where have I heard similarly before?” He paused and looked intently at the young man, pretending to think, who visibly tensed and fought the urge to step forward and bash the curiosity out of his interlocutor. “Ah yes, the girl. A very charming child, indeed, if perhaps a little too… _outspoken_ for my taste. Are you perhaps related to her?”

Roderic chewed on his tongue, nostrils flaring and fists clenching on either side of him. “She was my sister, my only kin. She meant everything to me, and now you will die for spilling her blood!”

Roderic made to launch himself at Buckingham, but his feet never went as far as his intent; the two guards from earlier had prevented the motion and had now a firm grasp on his arms and shoulders. Startled as he was at first, the duke quickly recovered and he chortled quietly at Roderic, whose face became a dark shade of crimson.

“Indeed. A fine ambition you have got there, Monsieur German, one you will find is not so easily accomplished. You are either very brave or very foolish to come all the way here to this end. My opinion tends more towards the latter.”

“You would not speak thus if we were alone, Milord,” spat Roderic as he gave another fruitless attempt at disengaging his arms from the lock grip of his restrainers. “Even so, I will have not a moment’s rest until I meet you in battle and see the colour of your blood upon the ground!”

Again, Buckingham chuckled. He turned his back to the young guard, waving his hand nonchalantly to his face as though swatting away at a most obstinate fly. He approached Milady and lifted her chin gently with his crooked finger, ignoring the feral growls emanating from behind him with superb contempt.

“My dear, would you be so kind…?” He gestured towards the deck and she nodded, smiled unctuously, curtsied gracefully and retreated from the room without a word. Buckingham walked back towards his desk and rummaged through some papers, while silence fell in the room, thick and heavy. It wasn’t very long however, before Milady came back. She spared what looked like an amused glance at Roderic before speaking up.

“Shall I, Milord?” she said in her sweetest voice.

“By all means do, my dear.”

Milady opened the door and spoke quietly outside. “Come along, now, dove, don’t be afraid. There is someone here to see you.”

Roderic’s heart skipped a beat, and a foreboding chill ran along his spine. The next moment, Orianne walked into the office, following Milady and looking rather nervous and quiet, but very much alive. The young German felt his knees buckle under his weight. Had it not been for the two soldiers, he would have collapsed to the floor.

“Orianne,” he cried out, his voice croaking on the last syllable.

She looked at him, startled, and then a smile unlike any she had given before broke onto her face. “Roderic!” she exclaimed. She fell against him and clung to him tightly, an embrace which was returned in kind. No amount of force could have kept Roderic in check as he held his little sister against him, and hid his nose in her hair.

“I thought you had been killed. I thought I had lost you,” he murmured feverishly in German against her temple.

“But nothing happened," she said, responding in kind, pulling away and looking at him in confusion. Her eyes turned slightly fearful in her remembrance. "Monsieur missed when he shot at me.”

Laying a hand on the fine stubble on his cheek and brushing a thumb gently under his tender eye, she examined his worn, haggard features with concern.

“You should not be here so why are you?” She slipped back into French upon seeing the disgruntled faces of their captors; her accent taking an extra minute to catch up. “You should be on the ground serving France, not up here on these floating boats. What did you mean to do coming here?”

It was hard to think of her normally sensible brother coming here of his own will, even if he wanted to help her. Athos would not have let him; she was sure.

“A worthy question it is, and its answer is most certainly enlightening, but this is neither the time nor place,” sneered Buckingham as he shoved his arm between the two siblings and brusquely pulled a pleading Orianne away, pushing her towards Milady without sparing her as much as a glance. “Let us make sure that your presence aboard has its use, no?”

He stepped up to Roderic and towered over him, grinning sinisterly as the younger man flinched away and avoided his gaze. “Take him away!”

Roderic spared a desperate look at Orianne as he was unceremoniously shoved outside of the room, the sound of her wail following him as the two guards took him back down into the airship’s belly, his whole body quaking with dread.

Once the sound of feet had died off into the distance, Buckingham turned towards Orianne, whose hand Milady held firmly, and he approached her, much the same as he had done her brother. She shook as she looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. He placed a surprisingly gentle hand on the top of her head and leaned in to murmur into her ear. “A fine fellow, your brother is. How about we discuss how you can assure that he remains relatively safe while he is on board, hum?”

***

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look as Athos sat, more silent than usual, if that was possible, with his untouched cup in his hand. He had remained thus, nearly immobile, for the better part of an hour, the longest he had been in a chair without putting the rim of a drinking container to his lips. Silence reined in the room, as it was. Porthos was chewing his upper lip and moustache while Aramis busied himself, or at least attempted to, by writing obscure lines on a sheet of parchment paper, counting on his fingers and occasionally scratching a word out with a sigh.

After a while, he set down his quill and stared at Athos from across the smooth, polished table. It took another two or three minutes before the older musketeer finally realised what was going on, and he returned Aramis’ gaze unfazed. He put his untouched cup back down.

“What is it, then? Do I have something on the tip of my nose?”

"What happened with Buckingham's emissary?" asked Aramis, shockingly blunt. "You have neither spoken nor drunk anything ever since coming back from that meeting, and I doubt that you have eaten either."

"You're not going to give in to his demands, are you?" demanded Porthos, slamming his fist on the table. "Dammit, Athos let us help, you grumpy old bear! You're not the only one he humiliated in Venice!"

If Athos was startled by the sudden display of energy from his two friends, he didn’t show it. He leaned forward over the table and pressed his hands together, as though readying himself for a rigorous business joust.

“As good as it would be for you to be vindicated from our less than stellar moments, I doubt that ill-respect of Buckingham’s wishes would cast a positive light upon the well-being of Paris or of others still trapped in the vicinity of the clouds.”

Aramis frowned, twisting his plume in his fingers, and Porthos snorted, taking a deep draught from his cup.

"You are right in that Paris would be lost if we acted hastily," said Aramis slowly, "But who is it up on those ships that is concerning you?"

"Buckingham most likely already disposed of the girl's body," said Porthos, shrugging. "It doesn't take much to throw a corpse overboard - Oi!" Cut off by his own exclamation and rubbing at his kicked knee, Porthos glared at Aramis, who sent back his own annoyed expression.

"Porthos, you have as much tact as a toad!" declared Aramis coldly.

"And you are awfully violent for someone who was a priest," muttered Porthos childishly.

Athos’ cheeks had paled considerably, and his cup was now empty. At Porthos’ words, he had grabbed it off the table and downed its content in a single swallow. He rested it on the hard surface again with a modicum of calm, but his hand still shook ever so slightly. The door suddenly opened and D’Artagnan walked in, pulling off his hat and the grey guard uniform as he did so.

“Des Essarts is in an uproar,” he said immediately, catching the eyes of the three musketeers as he untied his doublet and rested his baldric and sword against his favourite chair by the table. “Besides any regular deserters from the new recruits, Roderic left duty before yesterday and never reported back in again. He seems to have vanished into thin air.”

Aramis narrowed his eyes at the Gascon and then looked from him to Athos, whose expression had remained quite the same. The older musketeer sighed and pointed a finger skywards. Porthos’ and D’Artagnan’s mouths fell open.

"What does that mean?" asked D'Artagnan, a bit incredulous. 

"It means Roderic is in the clouds," said Porthos with a dry chuckle, recovering from his brief shock.

"He's dead?!"

"No, D'Artagnan, no," said Aramis hurriedly. "It just means that he is Buckingham's prisoner." Looking to Athos, he continued: "So I suppose he--"

"Followed me, yes," said Athos is a deadpan voice. "And Milady was quite happy to take him as her prisoner."

“What?”

“She’s alive?”

“How?” The cacophony of questions took Athos by surprise and he stood from his seat, moving away to put some distance between them and him. He did not take well to interrogation. D’Artagnan, however, followed him, being the only one standing.

“She fell from a ship; she shouldn’t have survived,” he said, his voice full of doubt. Athos glared at him.

“Are you saying I am seeing things, boy?” he growled.  “Tréville too was thrown from one of those things and he still lives. Do you doubt that as well?”

“No, Athos, not at all! I just wanted to know—”

“Then keep you ridiculous questions to yourself!” With that, Athos took his hat from where it hung by the door (having made his way there) and left his baldric and sword behind as he left.

“Athos, wait!” D’Artagnan called, annoyed, chasing him into the hall with Aramis and Porthos hard on his heels. “Where are you going?” He ignored them, marching farther, his thoughts turning blacker and blacker. He tried to disregard the feeling of the point of his dagger against his wrist hidden up his sleeve, his only weapon. It was the only way to get onto Buckingham’s ship, even if it meant having to trust that woman one more time.

 _“A word of advice: trust no one, especially women. You’ll live longer.”_ Buckingham’s voice taunted him is the back of his mind, and he had ended up doing exactly what he said despite despising the Englishman. The realisation made him sick and even angrier at the same time. He could feel the snarl on his face, his teeth grinding against each other, his mouth singing with the pain of a bad tooth he had forgotten to go the barber to have pulled, and the sensation cooled his heated blood. His thoughts cleared, and he realised he could no longer hear his friends’ hurried steps.

“Athos!” The authoritative voice stopped him mid-stride and he turned to see Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan down the hall and in between himself and them, Tréville had just come out from his room, holding himself up partially on a walking stick and Des Essarts at his side helping brace his steps. The musketeer captain’s face was stern and demanding, that of a disappointed father.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Athos felt a little guilty, ever so slightly, hearing the touch of weakness in Tréville’s voice.

“Captain, you should not be up yet,” said Athos quietly, “Your wounds...”

“ _Diable_ on my wounds,” said Tréville, lifting the foot of his stick to wave off the bearded man’s concerns, “You answer me this very minute Athos or I will charge you with insubordination. That’s an order!”

“Out,” stated Athos. Tréville narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“Out, you say? Out where? By the Louvre?” he pestered. Athos blinked but did not respond.

“So you expected to just leave here without any hassle to go and hand yourself over to the enemy unarmed?” Tréville’s voice rose by degrees as his anger grew. “You are not thick by any means Athos, so why would you do something this damn foolhardy?”

“That’s what we tried to tell him!” said Porthos. “But he’s too stubborn to—”

“Enough Porthos,” barked the captain before turning back to Athos, who had not flinched under the dark scrutiny.

“Well? What have you to say? Speak!”

 “No one else can go. Buckingham will burn Paris to ground otherwise,” said Athos coldly. He lifted his wrist and his dagger slipped out his sleeve into his palm.

“I am not unarmed, just under. I’m sorry Captain, but there is no other way.”

Tréville’s unchanging expression kept everyone quiet for several moments before he limped before Athos, looked up at him, and grabbed him in a quick, firm hold, patting his back roughly and then releasing just as quickly.

“Whatever you have to do, do it, but you damned well better come back alive. I am not going to lose one of my best men again because of stupidity,” Tréville growled. Athos nodded, too shocked to speak, and began heading for the doors again, tucking his dagger carefully back up his sleeve, but this time his friends followed him a slower, silent pace. Upon the steps of the Palais Cardinal, Athos stopped to regard each of them for a moment. Tréville was right; he was stepping into a lion’s den. There was a chance he would not come back – was avoiding that really worth the trouble, the effort, and, possibly, the pain?

“Porthos, Aramis, try to make sure to keep the boy out of trouble,” said Athos, his voice tinged with false annoyance. “It would be unfortunate if you had to tell the Captain that he was killed on our watch.”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to argue, but Athos cut him off.

“As for you D’Artagnan,” Here he paused, turning thoughtful, and reaching out to grip the thin youth’s shoulder firmly. “Keep them busy. They’ve been lazing about for far too long.” Shockingly, Athos offered him a flash of a smile then turned away, walking down the steps and marching away towards the front gates. He had plenty of time for his walk to his personal gallows; why waste it? Aramis had been right earlier; Athos had been too distracted by Milady’s sudden return that he had not eaten, and was just now finding his appetite returning with vengeance, so he bought some baguette and sausage, tearing into them one after the other, alternating between the smoky meat and fresh warm grain. He rounded the corner of a wall, spotting two musketeers on duty by the gate leading into the empty cobblestone courtyard of the Louvre, and finished off his sausage. His comrades nodded and opened the gates to him with the screech of the metal echoing in his ears.

“Athos wait!” He turned to see his friends arriving, D’Artagnan leading the way in an all-out sprint. Athos frowned and plunged forward into the yard.

“Close the gates!” He heard them shut quickly behind him, the Gascon speaking in frustrated tones to the two musketeers whom responded in kind, and Aramis and Porthos coming to his aide before he put his foot any further into his mouth courtesy of his irrepressible loyalty and overall hot-headed nature. A shadow passed over them as an airship covered the sun. Athos looked up, watching it come about to drop its weighty anchor and make the stones buckle up around it. He slowly took the ending crust of his bread and ate it, chewing it steadily, and waiting as the vessel touched down, was tied by some men, and the gangway extended to him. The door above him opened into a dark space and he climbed the gangway and entered the ship’s belly, swallowing the bread and lump in his throat. He would be lying if he wasn’t anticipating his own possible demise; the odds were not in his favour.

Expecting to be assaulted as soon as he entered, Athos tensed in readiness, but no one greeted him. The ship seemed as remarkably empty and quiet as the yard he had just left. Two men were there, soldiers, who pulled up the gangway, shut and bolted the door, and then left in without neither saying a word nor sparing a glance in his direction. The ship shuddered beneath his boots as the ties were cut and the anchor lifted, and yet the hairs on the back of his neck remained standing with his tension. There appeared to be no one aboard. He walked along the rows of ready cannons, the air stinking with the vague scent of gunpowder, until he reached the stairs and climbed up and out onto the deck, the fresh wind seeming to strike his face. The tables nailed to the deck before him were bare. The sky was a mixture of the cool mists of the puffy clouds and the warm beams of sunlight with a touch of an autumn coming on. Some strands of hair blew about his face; he had left his hat behind as it was safer on the ground than up here. Looking out onto the open face of the deck, he saw a lone, dress-clad figure wandering along the rail, one hand upon it, and peering down at the city below. The only woman he knew that could it possibly be was Milady, so he approached carefully, practically creeping on the toes of his boots. As he got closer, he noticed some things were a little different: the shoulders were wider than he remembered, and the dress seemed rather constricting on her frame, as if it was too tight somehow, and the closer he drew, the more he noted.

The hair was not red, but brown, and pinned up much simpler than any court style. The sunlight had fooled him at first about the colour, but he was sure now. The dress was a little dull looking, like it had been drenched with water and improperly cared for when drying. He stood behind her and she seemed to sense him, stiffening and placing both hands on the rail before her. Athos reached forward, gently touched her shoulder and pulled slightly to turn her towards him only to stop when she lifted her eyes to meet his.

“Orianne?” he croaked, feeling his mouth drop open in a deeply numbing shock. Athos realised suddenly that she was wearing the dress that Milady had worn when she fell from the airship over the English Channel, which was certainly too small for her. Orianne’s smile trembled on her rouge painted lips in stark contrast with her lightly powdered face, and her blue eyes appeared larger for the paleness of her cheeks but the light in them was dull and sad. He ran his hand along her shoulder towards the side of her neck, pressing two fingers on her pulse to make sure that this was not yet another nightmare from which he would wake back at the Palais Cardinal alone in the dark. Finding her pulse, he dropped his hand away and stared.

“I missed you, Athos,” she said, her smile growing stronger. He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her against him, holding her, his hand pressing the back of her head onto his shoulder and his other arm around her waist. This sense of relief that flushed through him; his eyes were beginning to burn from the effort to control himself. He reluctantly released her from his grip and looked down at her, trying to meet her eyes again, but her attention was drawn somewhere beyond him and her expression was something along the lines of loneliness and guilt. He turned to look, but a sudden sharp pain exploded from his temple and everything went black.  


	24. Dealer's Choice

Looking out through the barred window of his prison, the King of France found himself staring at the horizon dotted with buildings with painful, bitter longing. If he looked down, the walls around the White Tower with its patrols mocked him, mocked his situation, his lack of freedom. The sounds of the repairs droned on nearby, but he barely noticed them anymore; he had grown too used to them to be bothered. He twisted a handkerchief in his hands, imagining that he wringing the Duke's neck like a partridge's, and it gave him the briefest of thrills before it quickly began to lose its appeal and he tucked the cambric square up his sleeve once more. With a sigh, he pressed his forehead to the glass. He was used to liberty, to having access to whatever his whims of pleasure decided from dawn until moonrise, and even beyond. Being trapped in this room with its plain trappings and obvious prison-like facets, such as the insufferable bars, did not suit him in the least. The door to his cell opened; he did not turn from the window to acknowledge his intruder.

"Are you well, Your Majesty? I brought you the duck you asked for and the fresh bread." It was Thomas, his young chamberlain, and the only one who treated him with those sentiments of loyalty and awe that he deserved. His jailer Felton exasperated him and he no longer tolerated his presence, preferring that Thomas attend to his needs entirely. Of course, he had to ask the intolerable Puritan man for anything the King desired before it was granted, making sure that Louis received nothing that could be used as a weapon and was left with nothing to make one from, but Thomas had never failed thus far.

"Tell me, my boy, is there any news?" Louis asked, as had become his habit. He was desperate for knowledge from beyond this stone room; good or bad, it mattered little to him. Thomas nodded uneasily, looking back over his shoulder as if to check that both the door to the cell and its tiny window were still shut. Seeing this, Louis was becoming excited. Something had happened to Buckingham, something involving the siege, and the boy was reluctant to say for fear of being a traitor.

"Come now, you were given orders to serve me and I demand information," said Louis. Thomas bit his lip.

"Sire, you may not like it. I do not want to make you angry." Louis waved off the boy's fears with a flick of his hand.

"I will deign to hear anything at this moment."

"The Lord Duke sent a missive that he has taken France's ambassador captive for France refusing to give him what he wants." Louis looked at Thomas, shocked.

"They refused?! Do they not want me returned at all?" _Does Anne no longer love me?_

"And His Majesty King James has become far too ill. They fear he will die. The Prince of Wales is helping and is in charge until the King recovers or otherwise."

"The Prince of Wales?" For the one of the few times in the past few days, Louis smiled almost victoriously. "I should like to have a meeting with this Prince. If he is to be the new King of England then he is in charge of my imprisonment. Surely I can be allowed to meet with my captor, can I not?"

Thomas frowned thoughtfully, wringing his hands and shuffling his feet.

"I don't know, Sire. I suppose I could only ask, but Mister Felton will probably be angry with me."

"Ask anyway, and if it is possibly, I would also like to see the Princess," said Louis with a smirk.

"The Princess?" said Thomas.

"Well, if I am in England, I may as well have a visit with my younger sister. It is only polite, is it not?"

* * *

"Finally back amongst us. I trust you had a good sleep, Athos?" Said musketeer blinked warily, having just roused from unconsciousness. He glanced around confusedly, and painfully, as the room spun in a blur. He tried to roll his shoulders to relieve the cramped feeling, but found his arms stretched up above his head, his hands bound together and holding him standing up, the rope looped over a hook inserted in the beam above him. He flexed his hands and felt his fingers tingle from the poor circulation. He looked down from them and into the smirking face of the duke, and his eyes narrowed. He kept his mouth firmly shut, letting his glare do all the talking.

Shivering, he noticed that his cloak, doublet and shirt had been removed while he was unconscious. He clenched his teeth harder, his thoughts drawn to that naked feeling of being without a weapon, knowing that whomever had undressed his from the waist up would have most assuredly found his dagger and disposed of it. He was so distracted by this that he hardly noticed the tinkling sound of small objects hitting each other as Buckingham played with something in his hand, swinging it lightly back and forth.

"It looks like someone does not feel like talking, do they?" said Buckingham with a low, mirthless chuckle. He stepped closer to Athos and grabbed him by his hair, lifting his head and shoving something before his eyes.

"Do you know what this is, Athos?"

Athos swallowed the wince from having his hair pulled so suddenly and squinted to have a better look at the object. It was a whip, as far as he could tell despite the short distance between it and his nose, one constituted with several strands of thick leather. The clinking sound he had heard was made by the small pieces of sharp metal and bone that were protruding from each strand. The whip was perhaps thirty inches in length, but it was no less formidable for its small size. Athos blinked and looked up from the torture instrument to the duke's eyes. He raised an eyebrow, acknowledging the whip, without showing any more emotion than if he had been shown a handful of straw.

"A Cat O' Nine Tails," said Buckingham, giving the whip a little flick like he was playing with a child's toy. "I am sure you will become quite acquainted with it in due time should you not start speaking. I gather from your typical brooding manner that my demands are not going to be met?" He released Athos' hair to the musketeer's fleeting relief, which was interrupted by the sudden strike of the leather thongs against the back of his knees. Unfortunately for Buckingham, the protruding bone shards caught the fabric of his breeches and left the Cat stuck in the cloth. The duke growled in annoyance and wrenched on the weapon. Athos allowed a small smirk to rise to his lips at this, despite the stinging sensation left to the skin beneath his breeches. He kept his mouth resolutely shut.

"Dammit, come here!" Buckingham tugged harder and the fabric tore a little but did not give way to release the whip. A light cough made itself heard behind Athos, as if to cover a bout of laughter that could not be entirely controlled.

"Would you like some help with that?" Milady asked. Athos resisted the unease he felt at having her behind him, unseen. He could feel her gaze roaming over him in the way a wolf regards a young lamb, but he did not flinch. Buckingham stopped his tugging momentarily to look at her, his expression scathing.

"No, I do not," he said coldly and ripped the whip out of the cloth that bound it, tearing open the material on the back of Athos' legs.

"You seem to be well on your way to undressing him, Milord," she remarked with a smile, "but I can assure you that there are other, albeit not as original, ways to do such things."

"Shut up!" ordered Buckingham. "Be silent and stay or take your wretched mouth and leave."

Athos hung there, feeling the draft on the back of his legs as well as on his upper body with contempt. _This is humiliating_ , his thoughts spoke. Milady stayed quiet but must have given Buckingham some sort of response as he no longer raged at her. Buckingham panted from his recent temper and effort, turning his attention back to Athos, walking around out his range of sight behind him. He raised his arm high and brought the whip down in a sudden crack right between Athos' shoulder blades. The musketeer tensed under the sudden, unpredicted assault and a breath whistled between his teeth. A low growl made its way through his throat afterwards and his eyes gained a glint they possessed whilst during a duel; a look that promised certain death. Buckingham paced back and forth behind him for several moments more before lashing him quickly three times, once on each shoulder blade and lengthwise across the lower spine, leaving bright red streaks ending with small wounds beading with drops of blood. Athos focused on the wall in front of him, trying to follow the swirls in the wood instead of thinking about the stinging pain in his flesh. He thought he heard Milady sigh as he was struck again suddenly twice more in the same spot in the middle of his back.

"Maybe you'll have some answers for us now," hissed Buckingham as he thrust himself right into the musketeer's face, merely two inches away. "Is France ready to surrender and reimburse me for the damages YOU made to the Tower of London?"

Athos stared back at him unblinkingly, his expression unchanged, despite the very slight sheen of sweat that covered his brow. Buckingham snarled and pulled away again. Athos saw him raise the whip by the shadow he cast onto the wall and felt it when he brought down on him again and again, punishing him for his continued silence. Ten times the whip rose and fell, each time leaving redder and deeper marks onto his skin, the metal scraps and bones leaving longer and thicker scratches in their wake. Milady's dress shuffled against the floor behind him. Athos struggled to keep his breathing even, closing his eyes for a moment, and reopening them to look down at the wooden floor when a tiny drip was heard. His own blood seemed to mock him from between his two feet, which were weighed down by two large cannon balls attached by chain around each ankle. His gaze was drawn to his right boot, as an odd glint caught the corner of his eye. Barely hidden by the thick leather was his dagger, there by he knew not what miracle. The sight of it seemed to return him some strength, and he leveled his gaze back at the wall again. Behind him, Buckingham panted, as though unused to this level of physical activity. There were steps and Milady spoke. Athos had not even notice her leave.

"He still will not speak, Milord?" she asked. Buckingham responded by striking Athos hard again, purposefully hitting a particularly red band that now split, unable to endure any more of such pressure. Athos could feel the blood seep down his back in a sluggish trickle and he gritted his teeth against the leather's continuous bite. Milady sighed again, tapping her toe as if rather impatient.

"Your Lordship, have you given him time to breathe? Is not the unexpected attack a part of the torture?" she said lightly. Athos scoffed audibly. Buckingham came around in front of the musketeer, sneering.

"What do you find so amusing?" he demanded. Athos quirked a brow at him.

"That I am not the one who needs so much time to breathe."

The corner of the duke's lips lifted over his teeth in an open snarl. He raised a hand and backhanded his captive with such force that his head spun wildly to the side and the ropes binding his wrists creaked ominously. Athos blinked and shook his head to clear his shaking vision, and then his eyes rounded in surprise as he rolled something on his tongue and finally spat it at the shiny doublet in front of him. The rotten tooth, cleanly dislodged from its socket, fell to the floor and rolled away.

"Thank you, I needed that," the musketeer declared, feeling at the now clean hole inside his mouth. Buckingham stared down at the wet and bloody spot on his expensive doublet for a moment or two in shock before his expression became sickened.

"You French are all disgusting!" he spat, taking a fine handkerchief from his sleeve and trying to wipe away the spit from his front unsuccessfully, still holding the whip in his other hand. When he lifted his whipping arm, the duke made a sound of distaste, now noticing the red spattering his sleeve. He set the whip on a barrel and began to leave.

"Keep an eye on him. I need to change," he said to Milady, waving towards Athos with a disinterested air. "Although I am sure he will be going nowhere regardless." With this, he climbed the stairs towards his cabin.

With Buckingham gone, Athos, whose stubbornness alone had held him upright in the last moments, allowed himself to sag somewhat against his bonds. He breathed slowly, evenly, feeling the throb of his back increasing with the blood welling at the wounds, which, after having stung so harshly, now felt rather numb. Milady waited several moments, watching the stairs, before she spoke.

"It seems he does not let go of a grudge easily, does he?" She folded her arms and contemplated him before her.

At her words, he opened his eyes and stared at her incredulously. Of all the moments to try to do small talk.

"He, too, seems unable to bear loss." Milady's expression remained blank but her eyes flicked away from his, revealing her affected state.

"Be that as it may, he won't continue this game forever. He wants you dead," she said.

Athos shrugged and bit back another wince when even that slight movement caused pain to slice across his back as though the whip had been applied to it again. His gaze lowered and he caught a glimpse of his dagger in his boot again. He blinked.

"You must have been in quite a hurry earlier. That must easily be the sloppiest concealment I have ever seen, even though it has thus far proven quite successful. Further proof of Milord Duke's... foresight, I suppose..."

"I don't know what you mean," she said, slithering up to him and tracing on his chest with the tip of her finger.

He raised an eyebrow, nonplussed by her behaviour. "Don't play coy with me, Anne. This dagger was hidden away in my sleeve. There is no way that Buckingham or his pets would have so graciously left me my only weapon if they had been the ones to prepare me for this little torture session. I know only one person who will turn on a coin and do something so unexpected: you. The only thing left to know is why."

She smiled slowly and suddenly pressed her body against his front, moulding it to his like a glove, and stretched up to brush her lips against his ear as she murmured:

"Because as soon as you came on this ship, Buckingham did not stand a ghost of a chance."

* * *

 

Orianne sat on the bed in the cabin, using one hand to rub at her eyes, swollen from her tears, and her sleeve to removed much of the wet, sticky powder from her cheeks and the slippery paint from her lips. She had never meant for Athos to be hurt; she only wanted to help her brother! In her left fist she clutched a lock of brown, wavy hair so tightly that the strands stuck to her sweaty, clammy palm when she opened it briefly to stretch her fingers and releasing the pressure of her nails digging into her flesh. She could still hear Buckingham's laughter as he took his dagger and sliced off this lock of Athos' hair to give to her, mockingly informing her that this was the only hair from his head that he wasn't going to harm, before the musketeer was dragged away and she was imprisoned again.

 _He was so limp,_ she thought, _like a doll. Please, God, don't let such a brave man die in such a horrible way_. Clasping her hands in prayer, she stilled and focused on her rapid whispered pleas. She needed to be strong; she had no one left to look after her now. Her brother was gone and Athos could only be saved by the Divine now, but they would not suffer in vain. Roderic had come to help her and Athos had come to aid France so she had to try and do something worthy of their efforts. Biting her lip, she pulled up her skirts around her left leg to reveal her secret pouch, the results of the sewing Milady had allowed her, into which she tucked Athos' hair after peeling it from her fingers. She still had a needle and thread stuck through it, ready for when she wanted to seal it shut. She stood, swung her hands awkwardly, and began to pace the room. Passing the desk several times, she caught herself looking towards the drawer she knew the Englishman kept papers that he looked at regularly and was drawn towards it. She tugged the handle and it slid open with a jerk, to her great surprise. Perhaps he had assumed that her fear would keep her from going into his desk? At the top of the pile was a well-crinkled scroll tied with a red ribbon which she picked up, unraveled and unrolled to reveal the map that had caused so many problems. She laid it down on the desk's surface and began to fold it carefully with her delicate weaver's fingers, pressing gently on every crease she made, and ignoring the pain of any small cuts that graced her fingertips. Pain was not anything she was not used to.

"There," she muttered, "This should be small enough." She lifted her skirts again and this time untied the long leather straps that bound the pouch to her round thigh, tucked the smaller map inside, and, taking up her needle, began to close it. Her stomach clenched with fear and her hand shook, pricking her finger a few times, but she sucked the blood off and continued until her task was complete and the pouch replaced on her thigh. She closed the drawer and backed away, starting to feel sick. She was a thief now; she was going to burn for this later, of that she was sure. If she survived, she would confess the first chance she had, but, for now, it had to wait. Both Athos and Roderic would be proud of her for her bravery and she would do them justice.

The door opened and she backed away from the desk. Buckingham entered, untying his doublet and stripping both it and his shirt off without any qualms given to the red-faced young woman in the room who had turned her back to him as soon as she saw skin. She squeaked as he grabbed her shoulder and spun her around then pulled her hands away from her blushing face with a smirk.

"I suppose something like this is a real treat for you," he said, holding her wrists in his hands. "Certainly better than any Frenchman or Teuton." Orianne only felt sick; she swallowed back a gagging sensation as he released her from his grasp then felt herself grow warm as she recalled that time she had seen Athos is a similar state of undress.

"I know one Frenchman who is better," she mumbled. Buckingham growled and came back to her quickly after dressing, his doublet still undone, grabbing her roughly by the elbow.

"I think I will bring you with me. Would you like to know how Athos is doing? I am sure he would love to see you." After dragging her from the room without awaiting a response, he pulled her down into the ship's belly but paused on the last step. His grip tightened painfully and Orianne whimpered, but he did not relent.

"Having fun are we?" he sneered as Milady jerked away from Athos, trying to look nonchalant.

"Hardly. I think you may have damaged him beyond repair, Milord," she declared with an almost puppy like frown. Orianne swayed at those words and her knees collapsed under her. Buckingham released her, letting her fall to the ground at the bottom of the steps like a ragdoll while he tied his doublet.

"Orianne!" Completely forgetting that he was tied up, Athos made to jump to the girl's side. His momentum was harshly cut by the ropes retaining him, making his body contort almost comically and uselessly in the space separating him from his captor. He growled, half in rage and half in pain, showing emotion for the first time since mounting aboard the vessel. "What have you done to her?! I swear if you hurt but one hair on her head, I-"

"Milady, make yourself useful and wake the girl," Buckingham said, waving towards her and rolling his eyes. "I want her to see this, all the pain her choice has wrought."

Milady shot him a rather spiteful look. She was no servant and would not tolerate being treated like one. Disregarding her, Buckingham took hold of the whip and turned his attention back to Athos, whose shock at Milady's obvious rebellion had left him silent once again. Athos' attempt at a flying leap had reopened wounds that had started to dry up somewhat, leaving his back in an even bigger mess than it was before. Milady knelt and tapped at Orianne's face as Buckingham walked out of Athos' line of sight.

"Come on, wake up now," she said coldly. Buckingham cracked the Cat against Athos' back suddenly and he gasped, arching away from the blow. Orianne stirred and Milady helped her sit up just as Buckingham struck again. Athos bit down on his lip and resisted the urge to yell.

"Please stop!" Orianne cried as she stood. She tried to go to Buckingham, but Milady held her arm tight and Athos took several more blows before the Duke desisted.

"Let's give someone else a chance, shall we?" he said lowly with a cold smile, coming around to look him in the face. Athos tried to keep his breathing steady, all of his hate for the man focused in his eyes, and Buckingham looked away first, turning to Orianne. He grabbed her other hand by the wrist and shoved the instrument into her palm, closing her fingers around the handle.

"If you value your brother, you will use this on Athos, understand?" he said to her. She stared mutely at him in horror, appalled by the flecks of blood on his face. He rolled his eyes and pushed her forward towards Athos, who regarded her sadly before closing his eyes with a resigned sigh.

"I will be fine Orianne," he said slowly. "Do what you must."

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it wouldn't go away. Her nose and mouth was filled with the sickly metallic stench of blood and her eyes burned as they filled with more tears than she thought she had.

"I don't w-want to," she said with a quaver. Buckingham gripped her bare shoulder, digging the tips of his gloved fingers into her skin.

"You would rather your brother die?" he asked, whispering in her ear. She shuddered and rolled her shoulder to try and get him off. He spun her around and smacked her hard, leaving a large red print.

"Do as you're told you little idiot," he ordered. She felt cold and the weapon was an anchor in her hand. She bit her bottom lip and glared down at the floor, something bitter crawling up her throat.

"I said no!" she yelled, lifting the whip and cracking it awkwardly at Buckingham's face. He lifted his arm to shield himself and the thongs caught his sleeve, but it could not stop the blood spatter striking his face. With the cat o' nine tails dangling from the cloth, his face spattered, and his expression darker than that of the Devil himself, the Duke was a sight to behold. Milady looked on shocked; Athos as much so. Orianne began backing up towards Athos, her eyes wide and round. Buckingham growled, lunging forward, and Orianne screamed as he grabbed a handful of her hair at the top of her head and violently pulled.

"Cut him loose and get him on deck!" he roared at Milady, dragging the whimpering girl towards the stairs, ripping off the torture instrument and throwing it on the ground. "I will deal with this damn brat."

Neither of them moved for a few seconds as Buckingham and Orianne disappeared from view. Athos kept glaring at the steps, trying to regain his footing as he did so. Something snapped suddenly overhead, and he slumped forward with a grunt. Milady had cut the rope holding his arms up. He shook his head, dazed, and she mutely cut the bindings between his hands, releasing his wrists. Immediately, blood rushed up to his fingertips, and he winced as though millions of needles were stinging him. He flexed his fingers tentatively, although the painful sensation increased, knowing that it was necessary to avoid more injury to come to his limbs. There was a click as the shackles that chained the cannonballs to his booted ankles were released and fell away.

He stood with some difficulty, pulling his dagger from his boot as he did so, and started to make his way towards the steps without sparing a glance to his former lover. He vaguely registered a sigh behind him as he tucked the weapon behind his back in the lining of his breeches and gathered his shirt and doublet off a table, inwardly grateful that he did not have to bend over. He walked up to the main deck, where Buckingham stood, still holding the girl firmly by the arm as she struggled to pull free from him. The wind struck the musketeer full in the face, but he welcomed its cooling sensation after the dank and blood drenched atmosphere below deck.

"I thought you couldn't possibly sink any lower," he spat, watching the struggle. "Abusing a woman for sheer spite; you are a disgrace."

Buckingham sneered and squeezed Orianne's arm even tighter until she whimpered and started clawing at his hand to try and ease the pressure. "It was earlier that I wished you spoke. Now that you do, I just want you to shut up," he said shaking his head.

Without relenting the painful hold he had on her arm, Buckingham pulled Orianne closer to him and circled her waist with his other arm, his hand coming to rest just under her bosom. Smirking as he slightly caressed her left breast with his thumb, he leaned in to nuzzle her neck and lick her skin. She cringed and fruitlessly tried to pull away. "She is rather pretty for a waif, Athos, I must give you that. Pity though that, because of your gentlemanly ways, she has never learned the ways of the world. Perhaps I should devote myself..."

There was a sound of fidgeting behind Athos. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he smirked; Milady's discomfort was something of a revenge for his own ruffled feelings when she had chosen the English duke over him over a year ago. It was her turn now to experience the same.

Sounds of several boots climbing steps made everyone on deck pause and gaze towards the stairs leading to the hull. Three soldiers came up, half carrying, half dragging Roderic, whose sad state was more eloquent than cries and protests. He seemed to have been beaten thoroughly, his nose broken and bloody, both his eyes swollen and purple, some hair missing at his temples along with several apparent pulled nails. Without a word, the soldiers dropped Roderic to the wooden planks and two pinned him solidly, one with a pistol clapped to his head. Athos grew paler, if possible, from rage. Orianne writhed, twisting her arms against Buckingham's grip with an energy even he wouldn't have expected, stretching towards the still, but breathing, form of her brother.

"Roderic! Please, say something, say anything!" she cried, Buckingham straining to keep her held. Roderic's head moved slightly, trying to slide it on the wood so he could see his sister, if it was even possible with the state of his eyes, but the soldiers pressed harder with the barrel, imprinting a circle on his skin and making him stop moving.

"Enough of this!" Buckingham suddenly spun Orianne away from him and she staggered back towards the railing, catching the end of it with her outstretched hands just before she had the chance to fall off the vessel into the clouds below. The sun was suddenly uncovered and the deck lit up, the rays heating their skin and brightening the surrounding skies. The third soldier that had been with Roderic gave the duke his pistol and Buckingham leveled it at the young woman.

"Now that we are all here," he said, turning his head to look at Athos with a smirk, "You will get to choose who lives and who dies in the name of France! The loudmouth brat or the foolish boy?" Athos went to step forward but stopped as he felt a small muzzle pressed against his spine. Milady drew herself closer to him and stood taller to whisper in his ear:

"Dealer's choice."

"Very clever," Athos murmured ironically for Milady's sake alone. He moved his arm as though to touch the wounds in his back, and clasped the handle of his dagger firmly into his hand.

"My choice is... both." He whipped the dagger out and threw it. It sank to the hilt into Buckingham's shoulder, drawing a cry of pain from him. The duke's arm flailed wide and the pistol shot loudly. The man at the helm slumped, the bullet driven deep into his forehead between his eyes, and as he fell, his body struck the wheel and made it turn rapidly, throwing the ship suddenly off balance. Orianne staggered and toppled forward with the motion right into Athos and dropping them both to the deck. Milady fell back, slipping over the low railing and lunging wildly until she grabbed the anchor.

One of Roderic's guards ran to take control of the helm and feeling his opportunity, the young German drove his elbow up into the gut of his captor, forcing him to withdraw the pistol. With the guard bent double, Roderic knocked him over, stole his weapon and ran to Buckingham, who was still in shock and limply holding the handle of the weapon that was still buried to the hilt in his shoulder. With a low growl, the German clapped the pistol to the duke's forehead and pressed the trigger. The shot rang loud and clear, and was followed by a garbled swear. Only the powder had taken fire, and the charge had not come. Buckingham, whose face was now covered in soot, hesitantly opened an eye and peered with an odd expression at his prisoner, now assailant. Roderic's face was savage, to say the least. With a roar not unlike that of an angry boar, he lunged for Buckingham, fingers outstretched and reaching to grab hold of and beat any part of the Englishman he could.

Meanwhile, as the ship was finally righted by another soldier taking control of the helm and other men were coming up from below to try and take control of the situation, Athos gritted his teeth to keep from yelling in pain. His back seemed to shrink from the wooden boards of the deck below him despite the fact that Orianne was now slumped over him. She scrambled worriedly to pull away and only managed to slip on the hem of her dress and fall on him again. He gently seized her shoulder to calm her down, which allowed him to sit up and then help her to her feet. He glared at the soldier that had run at the helm as he stood.

"This ship and all those aboard are now prisoners, and unless you want to be responsible for Buckingham's early demise, you will land this ship now."

"As if we would ever submit to a stinking Frenchman!" One of the guards, a relatively young man, charged forward, ready to strike the stern but unarmed musketeer. "Try to stop this if you can!"

As he lunged, he aimed his sword at Athos' chest. He shook his head and swiftly side-stepped, causing the guard to stumble along his momentum. Orianne backed away quickly, falling down yet again. In a flash, Athos relieved his adversary of his sword and shoved him hard in the back. The guard finished his lunge into the railing, banging his head against a post. He slumped down and moved no more.

"Well? Are there any other volunteers?!" The men looked at each other nervously, no longer filled with a bravado brought on by the belief of superiority. None stepped forward to attempt his challenge.

"Are you all nothing but cowards?" Buckingham demanded as he shoved a hand in Roderic's face to take a moment of air. "Attack him! He cannot fight you all!" He was, however, quickly silenced as the young man drove his fist into the cartilage of his nose and both gave a pained yell.

"Roderic, get off of him!" Orianne was trying to grab the back of her brother's shirt, eager to help end the situation and get off the ship, but the fabric tore in her hand and left a large open patch over his shoulder blade. Athos pushed his arm between the two men and brusquely pulled Roderic away from Buckingham, grinding his teeth to avoid betraying the painful jabs he felt in his wounds at the motion.

"That is enough, Roderic. We need him alive." The young German glared at Athos unabashedly, not put off by the equally strong glare returned, but he said nothing and relinquished his hold on the Englishman, whose face now looked as though it had gone underneath a miller's grinding stone.

"Land the ship in that courtyard over there," said Athos to the guard at the helm, having relinquished control of the duke to Roderic now that he had quietened down.

As the ship was approaching the cobblestone yard in front of the Louvre, Milady sighed, shook her head, and slipped off the anchor when she spotted an oncoming hay cart beneath them. Some risks were worth taking, and with the ship preparing to land, being caught under the anchor was not an interesting prospect. The ship's re-approach was drawing a small crowd into the courtyard, the musketeers present having seen the first landing and were now confused as to why it was returning.

"What's going on?"

"Someone go tell Tréville, the Queen, anybody!"

 **The** **little historical tidbit for this chapter is the flèche. This fencing move is done by lunging quickly at the adversary. The danger of this is that if the hit misses, it leaves the person open for retaliation. Athos, as he was weaponless, took advantage of his opponent's loss of balance to gain himself a sword!**


	25. Safe Returns & Unwilling Departures

Seated at table, Anne of Austria picked at her plate with its rather scrawny, indescribable fowl and dabbed at the sauce with her bread dishearteningly. The siege had been taking its toll on the food of the Court along with the rest of the city, but up until now she had not had to be a part of it. Her ladies were not present, her having dismissed them into the next room to eat so as to have some peace. Across from her, Tréville sat also picking at his food, but for a much different reason than simply distaste at the meal. Lifting his eyes to the window for the hundredth time, or perhaps even more than that, his brow knit with concern.

“Do you think that we have done well in denying the Duke of Buckingham’s demands, Monsieur de Tréville?” Anne asked, setting down her knife as she realised that eating was the furthest thing from her mind. Tréville sighed and set his knife down as well, leaning back slowly and folding his fingers together.

“I am reluctant to say, Your Majesty,” he said slowly, frowning. “I regret, however, that it had to be Monsieur Athos that had to do this.” Anne opened her mouth to speak when her cloak bearer, Monsieur La Porte, entered and hastily bowed.

“Your Majesty, a musketeer just came to inform you that a ship has landed in the courtyard of the Louvre.” Anne stood and Tréville shakily followed suit, bracing himself with his walking stick.

“LaPorte, summon my carriage at once. I will go to meet this ship. Tréville,” she turned to the Captain, who did his best to present himself at attention, “have some of your men or Monsieur Des Essarts’ to have the Cardinal brought along as well. I may not like it, but he is still France’s prime minister and we may have use for him at the present.” Tréville half-bowed and hobbled his way out after LaPorte shutting the door behind him. The Queen paced the room for several moments impatiently until LaPorte returned to escort the monarch, his breathing heavy from rushing about.

“Let us go,” she said, lifting her skirts slightly so as they would not impede her feet.

“What about your ladies, Madame?” he asked, trotting alongside.

“We shall leave them to their meal.” A child’s squeal made her stop and she looked down the hall to see Constance guiding Thérèse, holding the child’s hand firmly in her own. Thérèse had seen Anne and was pulling to try to head towards her, but Constance would not allow it, bending down to scoop up the girl and carry her away for it was about time for a nap. Anne gave a sigh of longing and looked away, continuing down a flight of stairs, La Porte guiding her to the front doors of the Palais Cardinal. Beyond it awaited her gilded carriage, brought from the Louvre, with an escort of several guards on horses, their grey uniforms moving lightly in the autumn breeze. Des Essarts himself was part of the escorting party. The carriage waiting just behind hers was the Cardinal’s, all bedecked in the red colour of his station. The footman opened the carriage door and from within, Tréville offered his hand to her to help her climb inside. The carriage moved shortly after she had been seated and it was a short drive to the Louvre, which was then slowed by the amassed crowd of curious and fearful onlookers and all the soldiers that had been in the surrounding area at the moment of its landing. They had even managed to separate themselves into their respective companies and placed themselves on guard around the ship while still others pushed back against the crowd to allow the Queen’s and Cardinal’s carriages to pass. Upon disembarking from the carriages before the ship, Anne allowed herself a brief flicker of a smile at the Cardinal shielding his eyes from the sunlight, having been held under arrest in his chambers for so long.

The door in the hull opened and the drawbridge was lowered, causing the vague tumult of the crowd to hush expectantly. The first who emerged from the ship was Buckingham; whose face caused several gasps and whispers in the assembly, followed by Athos who had his hand firmly on his shoulder. The musketeer glanced at the people gathered and saluted the Queen then he urged the English duke forward. His motion was met with a cry of cheer.

“Your Majesty, gentlemen, the outcome of this siege is about to change for France! Behold, Buckingham is our prisoner!”

Athos’ proclamation was welcomed with tumultuous acclaim. Buckingham growled under his breath and winced when Athos’ fingers dug harder into his shoulder, not even two inches above the dagger wound, which had been grossly bandaged before the airship had landed. Roderic and Orianne followed the pair, him refusing her help as a crutch, but none noticed them as they slipped away through the crowd of soldiers that surrounded Athos, his captive, the Queen, and the Cardinal. Porthos and Aramis pushed their way to front of the queue, Porthos looking as proud as if he had captured Buckingham and Aramis sporting a slight smile and air of mixed relief and happiness.

“Athos, if you ever pull another stunt like this, we will hunt you down and skin you alive,” the priest musketeer threatened when he was finally in front of him.

“And it took you so many hours to beat Buckingham’s face in?” smirked Porthos, giving Athos a hearty slap on the back. The man’s normally stiff composure broke briefly upon the blow as he gave a loud hiss of pain through his gritted teeth. Aramis blinked at him in surprise and turned around him to see his back. Where Porthos had struck, his print had left the shirt sticking to Athos’ skin, held there, and held in other places, by his own blood.

“It seems we are too late for the skinning,” Aramis remarked coldly. Porthos stood stock still, pale with shock, eyes fixed on the large imprint he had left in the older musketeer’s back.

“We are so glad you could finally join us, Monsieur le duc,” said the Queen at this moment, irony shining at the corner of her lips, although her eyes were nothing but coals of fire. She stood not five inches away from the English prisoner and he flinched back, blinking over his broken nose, which he seemed unable to let go with his fingers. “You can rest assured that your lodging needs will be seen to most… thoroughly.”

Buckingham stiffened and bit on his bottom lip before glancing to the Queen’s left, where the Cardinal stood completely silent. Anne followed his gaze to the Prime Minister who, after a moment of contemplation, turned away and returned to his carriage. Porthos grabbed Buckingham’s neck in his large hand and urged him onward relentlessly.

Soldiers ran aboard the airship to subdue the rest of the Englishmen and the crowd seemed to feel that it was over, and started to disperse. Aramis made to place his arm around Athos’ shoulders to help him forward when the older musketeer froze and looked around. “Where is Orianne?”

Neither could see the pair of siblings buried in the crowd of Parisians looking on the scene and jeering at the English. Roderic, although still determined not to use his sister as a crutch, suddenly took the lead once he could no longer see his fellow soldiers and began to pull her along with him.

“We are getting out of this damned city as soon as possible!” he declared. Orianne leaned back on her heels, forcing him to drag her.

“What do you mean Roderic? We cannot even get outside the gates! No one is allowed to leave!”

“That does not matter to me,” he said, spinning around to face her with a dark glare made worse by his injuries. She backed up a step or two from him, but his hand on her arm kept her from getting further away for his bloody smell.

“Roderic, Athos just saved us,” she mumbled. “We should thank him for—”

“For what, dear sister? Almost getting us both killed? We will have nothing to do with that heathen.” He jabbed at her with his finger and she squeaked in surprise, flinching. “Do you understand me? He is dangerous!”

Orianne stared at him for a long moment, her eyes seemingly large with something akin to horror. He growled at her and tugged her arm sharply.

“Come. We’re leaving.” She jerked back to his shock and freed herself.

“No. I want to thank Athos, and you should want to as well. It’s the right thing to do!” She began to back away, picking up her drooping skirt in large bunches to free her feet. He stalked towards her angrily.

“You are coming with me, sister, and that is final!” He lunged and she stumbled back away from him.

“I said no!” She ran, her still intact curls flying and the hair that had been pulled blowing into her face. She could hear him behind her, pushing through people just as she was and having a more difficult time of it as he half limped, half galloped to chase her. She broke through the crowd finally and spotted Aramis trying to push Athos along, although the older man did not seem to want to move very quickly as he scanned the courtyard hurriedly with his eyes. Some guards in front of her were pushing back the people.

“Orianne, don’t you dare set one foot out there!” Roderic roared. “Get back here this minute!” She looked back briefly, gritted her teeth, and charged forward, shouldering her way between two men, one in grey and the other in red.

“Hey! Stop there, you!” The grey one went to grab her, but she dropped a handful of skirt and struck his hand away, continuing to run. Aramis had stopped trying to make Athos walk, but he seemed to be talking to him quite insistently. Athos’ back was to her. She glanced back to see the red uniformed man holding back a furious Roderic then kept going until she finally got to Athos, wrapping her arms tightly about his left one and almost jerking him off his feet. The grey guard slowed to a walk behind her, she hadn’t realised he was so close, and looked at Athos confusedly.

The musketeer’s features softened. “I was worried when I couldn’t find you. Are you all right?”

She turned to glance at the guard who had followed her, but he was returning to his post. Looking past him, she could see Roderic glaring and she sighed, turning away from her brother’s gaze and leaning against Athos’ side.

“I am as well as I can be for the moment,” she murmured, looking up with a half-smile. Athos grinned at her and gently lifted her chin with his curled finger to look at her eyes. The blue of her irises reflected the sky behind his head and seemed to shine as though she was close to tears. He framed her cheek with his palm and leaned in closer, feeling her breathing on his cheek. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to hers, at first hesitantly, and then with more certitude, feeling her entire frame tremor with emotion.

Aramis turned away with a small smile and a slow shake of his head. Feeling as if he was being watched, he scanned the now dispersing crowd curiously and found Roderic’s angered gaze directed towards the three of them. De Cavoie, who had been working to control the people, had also noticed the young German’s fury and was following its direction with equal curiosity. Noticing its target, he turned back to Roderic and placed a hand on his shoulder, which was quickly thrown off, and Roderic stomped away at last. Aramis frowned, crossing his arms and watched the Cardinal’s captain, but as he did nothing against this insult, Aramis left it alone and looked elsewhere, anywhere but at the occupied couple. They seemed to separate shortly after, and when he turned, he saw Orianne’s cheeks were flushed and she was giggling, rubbing at her face where Athos’ mustache and beard would have touched.

“Everyone else has certainly already returned to the Palais Cardinal by now,” said the former priest in a pleasant tone. “They will probably want for the both of you soon and we need to attend to your wounds, Athos.”

Athos tenderly wrapped an arm about Orianne's shoulders and they walked toward the Palais Cardinal. As they neared it, Porthos came out of the door and came to meet them with a triumphant grin on his face.

"Buckingham is secured in a room right next to yours, Athos. The Queen figured you would probably be the best to make sure that his stay is the most memorable." Aramis scoffed and Athos let a tiny smile come to his lips. "D'Artagnan will be sorry he missed your arrival. I bet he would have been tickled to see his Lordship in such a predicament."

Aramis looked about him. "Where is that boy anyway?"

Elsewhere, while Athos had introduced the beaten Buckingham to France, D'Artagnan was caught in a predicament of his own. He had been stuck on patrol to try and keep him out of trouble after having tried to chase Athos when he went to meet Buckingham, and when he saw the ship coming in to land again, he'd hurried towards the Louvre. Unfortunately, he never made it that far as someone grabbed him by the back of his uniform cassock and dragged him into the nearby alley. He tried to yell out, but a small, feminine hand covered his mouth and hair tickled his cheek, red curls from what he could tell from the corner of his eye.

"Calm yourself, gascon," said the woman gently. "If you don't quiet down, or if you try to run, I will have to kill you where Rochefort did not." She released him as he began to squirm so he could see his captor, already knowing it was Milady who had grabbed him. He tried to run, but she grabbed him again, thrust him against the wall, and pressed a dagger under his throat. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his arm and watched her warily.

"What are you doing here, and what do you want with me?" he demanded. She smiled gently at him.

"I am so glad you asked. As I am sure you remember, you owe me for saving your life." His mouth opened to protest, but she cut him off. "Although you did nothing for me when Athos was going to shoot me, I hold you no ill will. I only want you to do something for me and then your debt will be repaid."

"And if I refuse?" he asked, swallowing when the dagger pressed a little harder against his Adam's apple.

"You won't be of any use to me and you will have to die in dishonour," she smirked, looking quite pleased. D'Artagnan looked torn, but youthful ideals won out and he sighed in defeat.

"What do you want me to do?" Milady lowered the dagger and played with the point against her finger.

"I want you to help me get out of Paris and return to England."

"Why in the world would I do that? That would be as bad as what you've done; it would be treason! I would be shot on sight for desertion when I returned!" Milady shrugged nonchalantly.

"That is not my concern, now is it? It is your honour at stake. Besides, there is someone over the Channel you and your fears might be all to glad to see…"

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to protest then his eyes grew wide with realisation. “The King!”

“That’s right, you really are smart. We are going to see His Majesty, and quite possibly free him, but I need to get back to England to be of any use in this. Does this suit you?”

Shifting guiltily in place, D’Artagnan’s conflicted gaze made Milady sigh and look out into the street, packed with busy people filled with new energy after the defeat of one of the ships.

“Can you give me a little time?” he asked her suddenly. “We’ll need supplies, horses—”

“All of which we could take of outside the walls,” she said sharply. “I have any money we will require for the trip.” D’Artagnan fingered his uniform briefly in thought. Milady pressed a hand to her forehead in consternation.

“Now what is it? Are we leaving or not?”

“Alright,” he decided, placing a hand on the pommel of his sword. “But you have to stay right behind me when we do this. If anyone sees where we are going, and us leaving, we’ll be dead. You’ll have to hide until nightfall; it will be easier. The wall guards are told to shoot anyone who tries to leave and they aren’t forewarned about.” Milady nodded her agreement to this. _Perhaps there is hope yet for this young fool_.

“Where will I find you?” he asked her. She smiled at him almost sweetly.

“There will be no need for that. Although you are willing to help me now, who is to say you won’t go running right to Athos, Porthos, and Aramis as soon as I am out of sight? No, my young friend, I will meet you in front of Notre-Dame after sunset, but I will not tell where I will be between now and then. That is my business.” She slid out of the alley and joined the people in the street, leaving D’Artagnan caught between loyalty and honour, which is to say the opinions of his friends and that of his own on his person.

Helping Milady to the King held in England could result in his fortune upon his return, but what is fortune without friendship? Nevertheless, he had already agreed and it was too late to revoke his word. He could only hope that they could forgive him for his decision, and that the rescue would be enough to ignore his desertion from duty as the idea of being killed for such a thing did not appeal to the young man’s troubled mind. He left the alley soon after and headed for the Palais Cardinal, and if he was stopped while there, he would simply lie and say he was tired. It was easier to hide than to face the wrath of his friends.

**_The historical tidbit today is the Palais Cardinal, which is known today as the Palais Royal. At the origin, it was called the Hôtel de Rambouillet, and Richelieu bought it in 1624 to be close to the King, as it was but a mere step away from the Louvre. Richelieu bequeathed this palace to the King when he died in 1642. The original building mostly burned in 1763 and has since then been entirely rebuilt._ **


	26. Bloodletting, Battles, Broken Promises

Upon entering the Palais Cardinal, there was quite a bit of noise. Courtiers were calling for Buckingham's head as recompense for their missing King, now that France had him, or debating on using him to trade for their sovereign thus letting the Duke free to wreak havoc again. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis would have simply weaved their way through the crowd in order to seek out a doctor for Athos' wounds had Orianne not frozen in the doorway and thus stopped Athos as well. Her eyes were shockingly huge as she took in the amount of people and the raucous noise washed over her. People were turning and beginning to stare at the foursome, and she tried to back out the door, shivering like a crumpled leaf in a cold winter breeze. Athos gripped her tighter about the shoulders and forcefully steered her away from the prying eyes, his back burning and itching under his clothes. Orianne slowed them further by her examination of everything she could possibly see, twisting her head around and about to try and take in the splendor.

"Come on Orianne," he coaxed a little impatiently, "You can see it all later, I promise. Let's go."

"Was that her?" "Was that the woman from the boat?" The whispers tailed them for several moments until Porthos and Aramis ushered the pair into Athos' room, following and shutting the doors in their wake.

"We need to tend to your wounds," said Aramis matter-of-factly, heading towards the wash basin. "Get your shirt off and lie down." He shook the water pitcher and frowned. "Porthos go out into the hall and find a servant. We need some water."

Porthos offered a cocky salute and headed back into the hall, whistling a tuneless song. Orianne shuffled awkwardly next to Athos until he stepped forward and, hissing, pealed his shirt from his stinging flesh. She turned her back and stared at a tapestry depicting horsemen and their hounds on the trail of a noble stag bounding over a fallen tree. The door opened suddenly to reveal an older gentleman whose thick mustache was peppered with grey and whose cool brown eyes left little tolerance for nonsense. He set a large leather bag down on the room's table and regarded Aramis sternly. Porthos burst in shortly after.

"I apologize for barging in Monsieur, but Her Majesty sent me to care a wounded man. I am Monsieur de Lorme."

"I know who you are, Monsieur," said Aramis frostily. "You are His Majesty's chief physician."

"Aramis, I found a girl. She's gone for water and—" Porthos began as he entered, speaking over the physician, until he noticed the gentleman's presence. "What is one of these damn fools doing here? Come to bleed Athos dry?"

"Monsieur, bleeding is highly beneficial for balancing the humors of the body and cleans the blood of impurities! It is a necessity that cannot be ignored," stated De Lorme. Aramis frowned and crossed his arms.

"Be that as it may, we have our own methods of treatment. We thank the Queen for offering your services, but we do not need them."

"Oh I am sure you don't," said De Lorme, shaking his head. "Where is the man concerned?"

"Why should that matter when you're not going to see him?" Porthos demanded. De Lorme sighed and looked at the ceiling tiredly.

"Messieurs, I can see that you are very loyal friends, but you are doing nothing but harm to your comrade by not letting me treat him."

"I find that highly unlikely," Aramis spat back. Orianne listened to the growing argument, biting her bottom lip with concern as nothing was done. She braved a look over her shoulder at Athos, who was now lying on his stomach on the bed, and felt her stomach clench painfully upon sighting his torn apart back. The older musketeer sighed and grimaced at the sting.

"I am whom you are seeking, Monsieur de Lorme," he said in a tired voice. "We are musketeers, experienced soldiers, and accustomed to receiving far more grievous wounds in the heat of battle. Hence, we are quite used to treating ourselves."

"Very good, Monsieur, but I am here now and so are you therefore I will be treating you as I see fit. Do you dare deny the Queen's generosity by sending me away without having done my job?"

Athos quirked an eyebrow at the physician's words and Aramis pinched his lips, perhaps to bite down a sharp reply. Porthos coughed loudly and walked to the window. The doctor had hit a nerve. Everyone knew that for the musketeers, the Queen was sacred, quite as much as the King. De Lorme watched the storm brew under these rebellious brows and he knew he had won his argument.

"Go on, then, Monsieur de Lorme," muttered Athos. "Do what you came here to do." De Lorme smiled with satisfaction and went to move to the bed when the door of the room opened to reveal a servant carrying a pitcher and a basket of cloths.

"I was asked to bring these for Monsieur Athos?" she said quickly. De Lorme waved her in.

"Bring them here, Mademoiselle, and leave them beside me." She set down her items, but as she stood her eyes grew round on seeing the wounds and she gave a horrified gasp, covering her mouth with both hands. Aramis came and ushered her out quickly, speaking a few soothing words before sending her on her way. De Lorme looked up upon hearing steps approaching and met Orianne's troubled gaze, himself becoming affronted by her seemingly sudden appearance, having not noticed her upon his arrival.

"Who is this?" he demanded. "This is no place for such delicate hearts at the present. Monsieur," he waved for Aramis to come over then pointed at Orianne sharply, "escort her out."

"Orianne stays in this room," Athos countered immediately, in a tone that admitted no argument. De Lorme peered at him for a moment and recognized the imperious tone for what it was. Accustomed to dealing with nobility, he simply nodded once and proceeded to the table and began to pull out diverse instruments from his satchel, placing them around it for better access later. Amongst these were a large bowl and several thin yet strong strips of fabric. Aramis frowned upon these articles and placed his arm over the bowl, which the doctor was about to bring to the bedside.

"What are you doing? I thought we told you that bloodletting would be unnecessary."

"Monsieur, are you a doctor? Have you been trained in medicine? You are a soldier; you are trained for wars. I do not question when soldiers do their work thus do not continue to hound me about my own!"

"I would not question your decisions, monsieur, if they were sound!"

The tone was once again mounting between the two men. Athos pressed a palm to his forehead and tried to breathe through his nose, feeling a dull throb beginning to build behind his eyeballs, announcing a furious headache. He started when something wet and cold suddenly touched his back and he half pulled himself up, wide eyed. Orianne was sitting next to him on the bed with a dripping wet cloth in her hand. He exhaled and relaxed, and then nodded for her to continue with a tiny smile.

"I couldn't stand back any longer and see them do nothing," she muttered, gently wiping his back in short smooth strokes though the slight tremble in her hand gave away her fear. "Please, stop me if I hurt you. It is bound to happen." She took the cloth away, now coated in a brownish red colour, rinsed it, and reapplied her slow efforts.

Athos closed his eyes and let her do as she pleased. The cool water felt like a blessing on his inflamed skin and seemed to relieve the sting from the lashes. He completely ignored the voices of the two men, which seemed to fade into a hazy distance until they only sounded like insects buzzing somewhere in a far, remote place. It was only him, the comfort of the bed beneath his frame, and the gentle touch of Orianne's hands as she tended to him quietly.

"I fail to see why I am discussing this with you anyway, Monsieur," said the doctor in an angry tone, picking up his lance and approaching the bed, his furious eyes still fixed on Aramis. "I will do what I came here to do, and you will not stop me."

"For all the good it could do to him," chortled Porthos, pointing at the still figure of the older musketeer, beside which Orianne was just finished wringing her cloth for the last time. "While you two were bickering like two old wives over a laundry basket, he fell asleep, and Mademoiselle Orianne tended to his wounds."

"That will do," said De Lorme angrily, pushing Aramis aside and approaching, "Mademoiselle, please leave Monsieur alone. You have done enough and—"

"Then you are going to help him now?" she interrupted nervously, staring at him with a vaguely unnerving focus. The physician shuffled from side to side, feeling awkward under the stare.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, now please," he gestured over to a chair near the table, "Be seated over there." She hesitated for a moment and then walked to the chair, taking it from its original position near the table and bringing it to the bedside, although out of the doctor's way. She promptly reached for Athos' hand and held it, her eyes latched on his face. Even in his sleep, his features seemed to be drawn and tense, indicating the pain he was enduring. De Lorme glared at her, but said nothing as now that he was allowed near Athos, he dared not get driven from the task again. He reached forward and lightly shook Athos' shoulder, starting when the musketeer half rose from the bed and caught his wrist in an iron grip with a harsh glare.

"If you are waking me then it had better be for something useful!" he declared fiercely. De Lorme sniffed and tried to pull his hand away to no avail.

"Monsieur, now that your wounds have been cleaned, they should be wrapped and I still insist that we need to balance your humors by bleeding." Aramis came to the end of the bed, his mouth open and ready to reproach the doctor yet again when Athos cut him off sharply.

"Aramis, I don't want to hear anymore arguing. It is more tiring than these wounds." Porthos came up alongside Aramis looking concerned.

"Is that a good idea Athos? I mean, honestly, you did just come from being tortured!" said the larger man with gruff concern, watching him relenting his grip on the doctor's hand before painfully turning around and sitting up on the mattress. "Surely at your age, you're going to want to eat and rest rather than give more blood to this fool?"

Athos froze and stared at Porthos until the latter uncomfortably scuffed the floor with his boot and looked away. Without a word, the older musketeer held his left arm out for De Lorme, who promptly and tightly tied a thin long strip of fabric around its upper part. Just as he was reaching for his surgical knife, someone knocked gently at the door. Sighing long-sufferingly, De Lorme went to the door and opened it, revealing Constance standing there with another lady in waiting.

"My apologies for interrupting, Doctor, but we were told that Mademoiselle Orianne is here, and the Queen has requested to see her."

Orianne looked first at the women in the doorway then to Athos with fearful eyes, clinging to his hand with her own.

"I have to stay here," she said, "I want to help."

"One cannot refuse to see the Queen," murmured Athos in a surprisingly soft tone. He gently cupped her cheek with his right hand and leaned in to brush her lips with a kiss, ignoring the smirk that spread on Porthos' face. "Don't worry, I will be all right."

"It is just as well, Mademoiselle," insisted De Lorme. "Bloodletting is a messy business and there is nothing you can do to help Monsieur whilst it is happening. Monsieur needs to be calm of mind and your presence might worry him and cause more imbalances to his system."

Rosy cheeked and biting her bottom lip, Orianne stood reluctantly from her seat. She patted Athos' hand absentmindedly and looked at Aramis and Porthos with a sigh.

"Please look after him," she said gently, "I owe him so much and I want to be able to repay him." Aramis offered her an easy smile and Porthos saluted.

"Never fear, Mademoiselle," said Porthos, "We'll make sure he will be well enough to keep giving you all those kisses."

She hid her face with her two hands, but not before anyone could see that she had turned scarlet. "Porthos…" Athos growled warningly. "Well, we'll be going now, then," Constance said cheerfully, before curtsying and pulling Orianne gently by the arm. As soon as the three ladies were gone, the doctor grabbed his knife again.

"Good, I see the vein clearly now, Monsieur Athos. This should take no time at all. Once we are done, you will have to eat and then rest for the day."

Athos nodded and Aramis stared obstinately out of the window. Still admonished from earlier, Porthos remained silent, sitting at the table, though it was evident at his smirk that he was still thinking about what he had just witnessed between the young woman who had just left and his friend. The doctor held Athos' arm over the large shallow bowl and swiftly pierced the skin with an ease that spoke of a long practice. Athos gritted his teeth but remained quiet as blood immediately started trickling down from the wound and into the dish, a rich crimson colour that almost looked like wine. He could feel pin pricks on the tip of his fingers and cold along his forearm, but no relief whatsoever in his back. A somewhat metallic scent filled the air in the room, and Aramis crinkled his nose from the window which, after a moment, he opened to allow fresh air inside.

The basin was almost full when the doctor finally pressed the bleeding wound with his hand, stopping the flow. He quickly and tightly bandaged it before attending to Athos' torso. "There, it is done," announced De Lorme to the grateful three, before washing his hands in the already quite dirty water in the basin that Orianne had left behind. "Now all he needs is rest and some food. I will have some sent presently."

"Thank you Monsieur," said Aramis coldly. Athos lay back onto his pillows, closing his eyes to quell the dizziness. Porthos helped the doctor by haphazardly replacing his tools back into his bag after they were cleaned and shoved it roughly into the poor man's arms. As De Lorme was being forced from the room, he turned and said:

"Oh and Monsieur, you should refrain from drinking any wine for a bit. It may give you a nasty headache." Once he was removed from their presence and the door firmly shut, Athos cracked open an eye and turned his head to look at Aramis who stared back at him with a bit of a smirk.

"Shall I send for some wine, Athos?" he asked. Athos closed his eyes again and slowly lifted a hand to his forehead.

"Be quick about it."

* * *

The moon was quite high into the sky already when D'Artagnan arrived at Notre-Dame with a bag slung over his shoulder and his best sword dangling against his leg. He had left his good clothes in his room at the Palais Cardinal; for what he was attempting, they would have been a hindrance more than anything, choosing instead some simpler attire that he had had made after the fire had destroyed his home. The young gascon looked up at the sky and frowned with disapproval. For two people who wish to make a quick and discreet escape out of the city walls, such light would be troublesome. Luckily, he had met no one who knew him while he was preparing for this trip, and none of his friends or comrades came looking for him. He wasn't sure if that was lucky or not.

The repairs on Notre-Dame, despite the ongoing siege, had been steadily continuing, and the roof seemed to be completely repaired, except for a few broken gargoyles on the sides which had been clipped by falling cannons. As the young man approached the ages old structure, he peered at the shadows, half hoping, half dreading to see Milady standing there waiting for him. Perhaps she had decided to wait for him inside the cathedral, he thought as he peered around a corner and made for the door. His hand had barely touched the handle when he was pulled back by the arm and behind a pillar. He opened his mouth to cry out but a delicate hand sprang up to cover it and muffle the sound.

"Leave off the dramatics, gascon, I am not going to kill you. Unless you misbehave, of course…" She released his mouth and he turned around, still wide eyed like a child caught with his hand in a jar of cookies. "You startled me," he muttered, and she grinned sassily. "I blend into the shadows and move like a cat. It is necessary if I want to survive in this world." Slightly taken aback, D'Artagnan chose not to answer and instead looked at the woman, whom he would not have recognized for the world the way she was dressed. She had a pair of black breeches and a brown doublet, a large black felt hat with no feather, black bucket boots with silver buckles that shone in the moonlight and a rather sizeable sword. She too had a bag casually slung over her shoulder, and he had no doubt she was carrying an arsenal of other weapons hidden on her person.

"It is going to be difficult to get out of the city with the moon," he said to end the silence that was starting to stretch. "I'm still not convinced that this is a good idea."

"I do not recall asking your opinion on this. I only asked you to fulfill your debt of honour," said Milady smirking. His face pinked and he opened his mouth to protest, but she waved off his consternation in a bored fashion.

"Come on, gascon, we don't have all night. How do we get out of this city?"

"First off, although I am a Gascon that is not my name. It's D'Artagnan." Milady shifted her bag to her other shoulder.

"Very well, D'Artagnan." Only she could say a name and make it sound more like a sneer than an address. "If you are quite finished, we may go now?"

"Yes, alright, follow me," he spat annoyed, "but keep quiet and stay in the dark else the patrols will catch us."

They stayed quite close to each other, Milady stepping in his paces on the cobbles, looking for the entire world like his tall and narrow shadow. They were forced into an alley that stank of piss and household refuse when a patrol passed, pinned against each other so as not to touch the walls that pressed their sides.

"How much further?" she hissed in his ear.

"Quiet! Do you want my help at all? If we are found, you will never leave," he snapped. "We have to go to the east wall, does that satisfy you?"

"Near the Bastille you mean?" she asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

"No, further down from there, but in that general direction, yes." Seeing the road was clear, he ducked out of the alley and led their way towards the island of Notre Dame just north of the cathedral, which was less frequented and thus less often patrolled, and straight east through the weaving streets to the Rue St. Antoine and along the back of the Place Royale where dwelt a fair number of nobility. A sudden cacophony of noise broke the silence of the night, the sounds of clashing blades and English and French voices shouting, cracks of musket fire intermingling with the rest all under the pounding of many hooves.

"What is going on out there?" exclaimed D'Artagnan, grabbing Milady and dragging her under an arch of the apartments of the Place Royal, watching as soldiers barreled down the street to mount the wall. "Is it another riot?"

"No point in standing here and waiting to find out," said Milady, creeping forward at a hurried pace.

"Where are you going?" demanded D'Artagnan, following her as sneakily as he could, although it hardly seemed necessary now with the distraction. She got right up to the wall, standing under the stairs as guards pounded the wooden steps, new men heading up and others leaving to fetch more people.

"It's the Duke of Orléans!" cried out one man. "He has come with an army. They're taking over the ships."

"Prepare your weapons!" ordered a lieutenant. "Let's help them however we can from here. That damned Englishman never said we couldn't fight back from here. You men line up behind the front group and be ready with new muskets! Quickly now or we will be lost!" The volleys of gunfire became louder as the landed English were attacked on two fronts: from the Parisians above them and the army around them. Men fell from musket fire and were crushed under the horses. There was an explosion as a ship caught fire and the powder on board caught fire and black smoke fogged over the white of the moon. A couple of ships lifted off with a new standard bearing three golden _fleur de lys_ and a silver _label_ on an azure background tied to the rails, the coat of arms of Monsieur. The ship anchored over the Porte St. Antoine shot off its cannons, and managed a hit, but was quickly struck down by one of its former fellows and fell partially on the wall, partially in the tributary off of the Seine.

"Open the gates!" ordered another man, "Open them now and let the victors inside. Try to move that blasted anchor."

"Now is our chance, gascon!" declared Milady. "Be ready."

"For the last time, stop calling me that! I have a name!"

They made a mad dash for the gates just as they opened, and narrowly avoided the army pouring in by ducking to the left between thick bushes and the stone wall. D'Artagnan took a deep grateful breath of fresh countryside air and almost whooped for joy. Nearly four months it had been since the beginning of the siege, and it was the first time since then that he was outside those blasted walls!

Milady coughed, interrupting his silent gleeful contemplation. "We need to gather two horses to travel," she said matter-of-factly, looking on the devastation that had been a battlefield not even five minutes before. Wounded people, both English and French, were moaning and groaning, some limping to the gate. A handful of horses were running amuck, trapped between the fallen airships and the stone walls, trampling whatever was in their way. "Come, D'Artagnan, these ones are too wild to be of any use. Let's find other ones further down the road."

"These are horses from the armies of the Prince de Condé, and we will find no better steeds. I want to try something." Milady sighed impatiently as the gascon ran into the mist of the confusion and caught the reins of one of the horses, pulling on it tightly while calling out to it soothingly. The horse reared and struggled, carrying him along a few steps, but D'Artagnan did not relent on his hold. Gradually, he succeeded in slipping his foot in the stirrup and pulling himself onto the saddle before solidly pulling the reins. The horse bucked and kicked for a few more minutes, and then quietened down, finally.

"Well, nicely done," appraised Milady, impressed despite her best intentions. D'Artagnan smiled triumphantly as he rode the animal towards her, and dismounted. "I will catch another one and we can be on our way."

It took little time for him to settle another horse for his travelling companion, if one could use such a term, and upon tying their bags to the saddles, set off heavily applying the spur to get as much as they could between the city and them under the cover of darkness. It would be a while before anyone noticed his absence thanks to the timing of the city's liberation or at least he hoped he would not be missed immediately.

* * *

Athos turned to his side and flinched, growling a few curses as pain stabbed through his bandaged back. Aramis and Porthos had finally left him alone after all three of them had shared a large meal and drank through several bottles of wine from the Cardinal's own cellar. He enjoyed the peace and quiet for all of thirty seconds before the lacerations in his back had started smarting and stinging again.

He stood stiffly and walked over to the pitcher of fresh water and the basin that a servant had brought him to replace the soiled ones that had been used to treat him, and splashed water all over his face and shoulders. If nothing else, he thought to himself, a walk would probably distract him from the war that was raging under his bandages. He picked his chemise off the chair where it had been placed after another servant had brought his freshly laundered clothes back to him, and struggled into it. As he reached for the handle, he paused. Two sets of feet were quietly approached. He pulled away from the door, half expecting it to be opened, but the two people passed him and stopped in front of the soldiers guarding Buckingham's door.

"I want to see the prisoner," said an authoritative voice that could be mistaken for none other than Richelieu. Athos's eyes rounded and he quickly pressed his ear to the panel of his door. _The Cardinal? Here? What could he possibly want with the accursed Englishman?_ The guards shuffled awkwardly and one finally spoke. "Your Eminence, we have not been instructed to let anyone see the Englishman, but we have been given orders to report to Her Majesty anyone who wishes to speak with him."

"Do your duty, gentlemen," drawled Richelieu in a calm voice where only those who intimately knew him could detect the annoyance. "What I have to tell the duke serves only to the purpose of France."

"Will you be quite safe?" The other guard asked in his turn. "Yes, quite. I have De Cavoie here with me. Now, let me through, and post yourself on the opposite wall. What I have to say really is a private matter."

The sound of a key turning in a lock was followed by some shuffling as the two guards followed Richelieu's instructions. Athos quickly pulled the chair from the wall separating his room from the prisoner's and pressed himself to it, ignoring the stabs of pain in his midsection. The sounds beyond were muffled to a degree, but he could still hear them well enough.

"It's about time you showed yourself," snapped Buckingham impatiently, his voice sounding a bit off.

"You are a prisoner of the state," said Richelieu slowly as if talking to a child. "One can hardly walk in here on a whim as you should expect."

"As I recall, Cardinal, we had a deal, did we not? An alliance, shall we say?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not, but this potential scenario is what I am here to discuss with you." Athos narrowed his eyes, pressing his even more firmly against the wall so as not to miss a thing said between the politicians.

"If I remember my intelligence correctly, you received a message from your ally in France asking for time. You did not comply with this, choosing instead to take the King as your prisoner."

"Speak plainly for once and spare me your winding rhetoric," growled Buckingham. "I have neither the want to hear nor the patience to tolerate it."

"You do not have the patience for much, Duke, said Richelieu sharply. "And your haste has cost your dearly, hasn't it? You need only look in a mirror to see that."

There was a moment of silence before Buckingham replied. "I would if I had one, but Her Majesty has seen it fit to have anything of the sort removed from the room."

"As it was, I only came here to tell you that you are on your own. I work first and foremost for the good of the State; the good of the State demands the presence of its King, whom you have laid your hands on. You have brought whatever fate is reserved to you upon yourself, Duke, and I will do nothing to betray France."

"Well, is this not the pot calling the kettle black!" declared Buckingham with a roar. "You, of all people, are lecturing me about the demands of the State as if you had any notion of loyalty to anyone save your own ambition!"

"I bid Your Grace a good evening. My doctor will come and see what can be done to make you more comfortable. It does not do to exchange damaged goods for ones of infinitely more value." As Buckingham threw no end of curses at the French minister, Richelieu remained silent. Athos heard rapid steps, the unsheathing of a blade, and then De Cavoie spoke.

"I would suggest you hold your tongue, Milord," he said lowly. "Else I shall have to remove it." Athos could just see in his mind the Cardinal's captain of the guard with his sword up at Buckingham's throat, threatening the Duke into silence. As much as he did not like the Red Duke, the musketeer could not resist smirking at the image the voices and sounds painted for him so easily.

"Enough, de Cavoie, we're leaving." Athos left his post assured that the incriminating conversation had ended and headed for his door that led into the hall beyond. He pulled it open and stood by the frame, casually leaning on it as Richelieu and his captain came out, a trace of red on Richelieu's cheeks the only indication of what had occurred within the room. The Cardinal waved for the guards to recover their former position and made to leave when he noticed Athos there. He froze on his feet so suddenly that de Cavoie nearly walked into him. One look on the musketeer's face told him the truth; Athos had heard everything.

"Good evening, Your Eminence," said Athos with a rigid bow and a small smile. "I have not yet had the opportunity to thank you for allowing me and my friends rooms after the airship raid."

"I trust you find yourself lodged well?" Richelieu inquired between clenched teeth, fingering the cross that hung from his chest to prevent from fidgeting. "Perfectly, Monseigneur," continued Athos casually. "Our needs are seen to perfectly. My only concern is about the thickness of your walls."

Richelieu pursed his lips, for once at loss for a retort. Athos raised an eyebrow at the Cardinal's silence, and shifted slightly on his stance. "I hear there is going to be war at La Rochelle. There will be time after that to discuss about architecture and what can be wanted about it afterwards, I'm sure."

"I shall look forward to it," ground out Richelieu at last. "Good evening, Monsieur Athos."

"By Your Eminence's leave," said Athos, watching as the Cardinal walked passed him, now coldly ignoring his presence, with de Cavoie following swiftly after him, before going back into his room and shutting his door. Hearing the door close, Richelieu turned to de Cavoie, his expression colder than ice.

"You mentioned to me earlier that you met a young man with a great temper towards musketeers, a young German, I believe."

"Yes, Monseigneur," said de Cavoie. "What of him?"

"I wish to have a few private words with him. Find him and offer him my personal invitation. You believe he is at least familiar with those damned three?"

"From the expression I saw, he despises them."

"Then make sure that none of them see you and him together. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely Monseigneur, I shall seek him out myself."


	27. Family Matters & Travel Squabbles

**Please note that we have nothing against religious denominations nor are pushing anything onto our readers. What people believe in is their own business. Anything said in the chapter that would be construed as inappropriate or offensive to those of the varying Protestant faiths is only meant to be a reflection of the times about which we are writing. Thank you.**

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The collected army of the Duke of Orléans marched into the city, filling the width of the streets they passed through and making such noise that people grew curious and leaned out their windows to see. There was, at first, cries of fear as it was thought that the English had invaded the capital, but it was soon discovered that the soldiers were French and cries of jubilation rose en masse. Citizens dressed in only their night things opened their shutters and crowded their doorways, cheering on the soldiers as they came by and following them in an ever growing mob once they had passed.

“Vive Monsieur! Vivent les gardes! Vive la France!” The Duke’s army had been joined by the mixed companies of the Garde Royale, the Musketeers, and the Cardinal’s Guard, swelling it further than it had been upon arrival, and the mass still grew as those on patrol joined the parade. Monsieur, on horseback, led them to the Louvre, and upon discovering what all had occurred there was directed to the Palais Cardinal. Within the palace, all was quiet. The Queen slept undisturbed until the arrival of such the noise in the street below pierced her dreams and forced her to stir for her bed, a fair bit disoriented and more than a little fearful. She found herself a robe to wear and went to the window, unlatching it and pushing it open to see rows of bright, flickering torches, their light flashing on the armour of men, and the shouts of the people. She crossed herself hurriedly, backing away from the opening.

The doors to her bedchamber suddenly burst open and three of her ladies rushed in, barely dressed in the sense that they were in only their chemises and robes but smiling from one ear to the other. “What is going on?” Anne asked, meeting them halfway across the room with her arms held outstretched. “Are we being attacked?”

“No, Your Majesty, it is your brother, the Duke of Orléans, who just victoriously rode into Paris, trampling half of the English fleet in the process and sending the rest of them in flight! The Invasion is over, Madame, Paris is free!”

“Monsieur is here in Paris?” said Anne, astonished beyond belief. “Why is he here at all?”

“Madame, we are liberated, why does it matter?” said Dona Estafania, her sole remaining lady from Spain. “Will Your Majesty consent to dressing in order to prepare for the audience that His Highness Monsieur is likely to request?”

There was little time for such preparations as a knock on the door resounded in the room and Madame de Lannoy went to answer it as Constance was fetching all the particular pieces of the Queen’s attire. La Porte was on other side, looking anxious despite his sleepy air, and he was admitted immediately. He bowed low to Her Majesty, to which she waved her hand to acknowledge him, watching his reflection in her vanity mirror that she was now trapped behind as Dona Estafania tried to tame her blond curls into some semblance of order.

“Your Majesty, His Highness Monsieur is requesting an audience. I tried to explain how late it was to him but he refuses to listen to reason and I—”

“That is quite alright La Porte; we will see him but not immediately. Have him brought food and wine and try to entertain him for at least an hour as I wish to be presentable before offering him my thanks,” said Anne, stifling a yawn with her fingertips pressed against her mouth. Half of her curls were pinned up and heavily powdered to hold them in place.

“Shall I also seek out His Eminence for this audience?” asked La Porte somewhat nervously, glancing over at Constance, his goddaughter, who had just laid out the black overlay of a blue and gold damask patterned dress. She then gently began to carefully separate the petals of the three tiered, heavily starched collar that resembled large daisies, exchanging a concerned glance with the Queen’s cloak bearer. Richelieu was, indeed, Louis’ chief minister, but was still, as of yet, in disgrace. Inviting him to this meeting with the Duke of Orléans could be good as he had the political expertise necessary to deal with the demanding young man, but the Duke had little good humour towards the Cardinal.

“I suppose we must,” admitted Anne. “If he has been awakened by the shouts outside, see that he is informed of the audience and that we have requested his presence there. If he is not awake, ensure that is changed and inform him just the same.” La Porte bowed and left quickly. No matter what the order, it was always best to follow directly and without delay. Dona Estafania had finished styling her hair and now Madame de Lannoy waited nearby with a boned corset and a soft bum roll, ready to tie her into them, one around her waist and chest and the other over her hips. Next were the billowing underskirts tied about her waist over the roll and then Constance approached with the conjoined parts of bodice and overskirt of her blue and gold dress. The gold-detailed, slashed sleeves with their lace petal cuffs were laid out separately, to be pulled on and pinned at her shoulders after sufficiently tying the dress about her, and the black mantle coat was then guided onto her shoulders, tied around her elbows in small black bows in order to maintain the puffiness of her sleeves. The coat was held about her waist by a small belt of pearls and clear stones, two diamond icicles dangling under yet another small black bow against her skirt front. Its matching piece was a connected strand that was pinned to each shoulder of her coat and hung just under her bosom. After all the efforts of her ladies, the Queen was finally ready, and yet she could not stifle another yawn. It was still dark outside and they had been working hastily by minimal candlelight, even for applying her powder and her rouge. Her dressing had never before been so quickly executed.

“Thank you Mesdames,” she said slightly sleepily. “Now I am sufficiently prepared to meet our liberator.” The three women dipped into low curtsies as the Queen left unescorted as they were hardly presentable themselves. She entered her adjoined chamber where Monsieur was waiting, offering him her hand when had stood and to which he bowed over not to kiss it but to give that same semblance of respect.

“It is a pleasure to see you, Monsieur,” said Anne warmly to the young man as he released her hand and straightened, “Especially given the great service you have thus rendered to us.”

“Your Majesty, the sentiment is mutual. I could not tolerate seeing Paris locked under a siege by the English and I offer my deepest apologies that it took me so long, but as I did not receive a reply from His Majesty my brother, I hesitated in coming. May I ask where my brother is?” Anne went to reply when the door opened, admitting Richelieu who appeared calm and collected and certainly not tired. Was it possible that he simply never slept?

“Thank you for coming, Your Eminence,” said Anne, sitting down.

“My apologies for my sudden arrival, Your Majesty, but I was caught up in some personal affairs and I attributed all the noise outside the palace to yet another riot.” Gaston d’Orléans stood straight and imposing, refusing to offer any sort of reverence to the Cardinal.

“And what is he doing here?” he demanded, pointing at the Red Duke. “I am here to see His Majesty, not his disobedient pet.” Anne bit back a smile as the two men regarded each other with such cold and intense dislike that she began to wonder if they would end up scrapping like dogs.

“I am here as the chief minister of France,” said Richelieu sharply. “And on the Queen’s request!”

“Monsieur, please,” said Anne, stretching out a hand to him to first direct him to a chair and then gestured for the Cardinal to take another, “We are both here to thank you for your courage in striking back against the English.” Gaston preened his sparse mustache between his forefinger and middle with a rather prideful smile.

“My men will need to be fed and housed,” he said categorically.

“It will be done without delay as soon we have sent out parties to obtain food for the city,” said the Queen. Monsieur nodded contently with the response.

“The State will also require further assistance from you,” said Richelieu, folding his hands together in front of him. Gaston glared at him.

“Unfortunately, Monsieur, His Eminence is correct in this regard. We are in need of someone willing to lead men against the Huguenots of La Rochelle,” admitted the Queen.

“What the Devil for?” he demanded.

“Your brother had decided that, as a Catholic nation, the Crown cannot continue to support the fortification of Protestant strongholds. As La Rochelle is one of the biggest of these fortified towns, it must be dealt with as soon as possible,” said Richelieu.

“We have intelligence that the Duke of Buckingham was going to aid them with his airships and his sea armada,” said Anne.

“This source of yours seems well informed,” said Gaston with a slight smirk.

“We have map of his plans at our disposal, brought to us by this singular informant, and now we are offering you the chance at glory in France’s name by leading this army against not only against La Rochelle, but against England as well.” Anne sat tall in her chair, waiting, watching the expression of the young man cautiously. Gaston looked pensive for a couple of moments before a smile crossed his lips.

“Very well, I think I could manage to lead an army, but first I want to discuss my terms.” Richelieu leaned forward slightly with eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“What I want is that my engagement to Mademoiselle de Montpensier be annulled,” stated Gaston.

“That cannot be done by anyone other than His Majesty,” said Richelieu. “The King has full right to decide on the marriages of all his siblings, as you are well aware.”

“Which brings me back to the question I posed to you already, Your Majesty,” said Gaston, looking to Anne. “Where is the King? Where is my brother?”

“By helping us fight England, you will be helping us recover my husband,” said the Queen tiredly. “He is there, taken prisoner by Buckingham whom we have made our own prisoner in return.”

***

Seated in the office of the King in the Palace of Whitehall, Louis XIII could not help but smile at the annoyed expressions on his sister’s and brother-in-law’s faces. Recently married several months prior, Charles and Henriette Marie, the Prince and Princess of Wales, seemed to be a stalemate of what should be done with the French king before them. Charles was rubbing at the start of the beard on his chin in a pondering manner, whilst his wife’s pale skin was pinked with her rage.

“Had I known my brother was here,” said Henriette angrily in her native French, “I would have housed him myself! The Tower is no place for the King of France and you would be shown the same courtesy in said country had London been besieged and you taken away.”

“Maria,” began Charles hotly with his preferred name for her, “There is nothing I can do, and you know this. My father the King may have passed this morning (1), but the Parliament will not agree to your brother’s release. My coronation will not be for several months.”

“Unfortunately, it will have to be a Protestant ceremony,” she said, shaking her full head of brown curls. Charles gave a wan smile.

“Such is the case in England, my dear,” he said, “Catholics are as well accepted here as the Huguenots are in France.”

“That is to say,” she declared coldly, “not at all or, at the very least, with extreme repugnance.”  

“Let us not start this again! You have already made your views clear that you will not be crowned in a Protestant ceremony. I may have power, but I count the Duke of Buckingham as my closest companion, and what occurred here at the Tower must be repaid,” said Charles angrily.

“I do not even know why we are even at war at all!” said Louis. “Did Buckingham not deliver our terms of peace?”

“He did.”

“And did we not have an agreement that in exchange for allowing your marriage to my sister, you will not give aid to the Huguenots of La Rochelle?”

“Indeed we did.”

“Then why in the world are we at war at all?” demanded Louis. “By besieging Paris and taking me, Buckingham has issued a declaration!”

“Indeed he has, and with the blessings of the late King, myself, and the Parliament.”

“What?” Louis appeared shocked. “Why, in God’s name?”

“Because France attacked the Tower of London without provocation and stole one of our machines from our fleet,” said Charles coldly. “We have been forced to disregard any talk of peace after that.”

“This is absurd! The only airships we have in France was one that was a gift to me from Cardinal Richelieu and the other that was built by a saboteur and a spy. We have stolen nothing from you!”

“By God Charles, I told you all of this!” said Henriette, “Why will not listen? Why would France want any of those infernal, frightening machines?”

“For the very reason of creating a fleet of their own to combat us, that is why, for without plans, they needed a proper model to build from, is that not true?”

“It would be if we had any need for them,” said Louis, fear pooling in his gut. This whole audience was not going in any way as he had hoped. “But we had no need to go to war with you whatsoever.”

“And yet you did,” said Charles coldly. “There is a hole that has been repaired in the Tower of London, but England has not been given its restitution for the damage or for the shame of being robbed one of our war machines.”

“I am telling you that I absolutely no idea what you are talking about!” declared Louis, his voice being to rise in his panic. “Henriette, for God’s sake, help me! Tell your husband that we have done nothing against England, and if someone did, it was without any royal sanction!” The Princess shook her head, her eyes wide and sad.

“My brother, I have tried, but he will not listen to me. I am his wife, but I am also an unfortunate foreigner both in body and devotion. I am despised here and anything I say is considered yet another reason to continue that sentiment. How I wish I could help you!”

“I would settle for a proper bed befitting my rank and a half decent meal,” said Louis tiredly. He looked at Charles defiantly. “Surely that is not too much to spare for a fellow monarch and your brother-in-law.” Charles chewed at his mustaches for a several moments then stood and walked to a pull cord, tugging it twice and reseating himself. Felton entered immediately after, stiffly bowing the King of England.

“Mister Felton, you were assigned to guard the King of France, is this not correct?” he asked, switching to English. Felton nodded.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Do you believe it to be a risk to allow His Majesty more freedoms by having him moved to Palace of Whitehall?” asked Charles, leaning forward. Louis’ eyes went wide. This Puritan was going to decide his fate? Felton’s face was as impassive as ever as he stood there at military attention.

“I would have to say no, Your Majesty. The King of France has been a model prisoner.” Henriette smiled and clapped her hands together.

“Excellent,” she said, “We will get you into a proper room and changed into fresh clothes, everything you should have been offered in the first place if not for that wretched Buckingham!” She did not catch the sharp look sent her way by Charles, but would it have really mattered to her if she had?

“Very well,” said Charles.

“I would like him to be near me, Your Majesty,” said Henriette, standing. “I have missed my family and wish to spend time with my brother.” Charles looked at her with slight suspicion, but slowly nodded.

“I suppose that will be fine,” said Charles, also standing. “Felton, you will escort His Majesty to the guest chambers just down the hall from those of the Princess and continue your duty as his guard.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Felton. He turned to Louis and extending his arm towards the door, bowing his head. Louis got up, hardly feeling as Henriette took his arm to walk with him as he stared Charles right in the eye.

“We thank you for your generosity,” he said slowly, “but I stand by what I said before. I know nothing about any attack on the Tower of London or about an airship theft. You have my word of honour on this.” He left quietly after that, Felton closing the door behind them then leading the trio on to his new prison, for no matter how well-dressed the room, that fact still remained the same.   

***

With the autumn sun bearing down on them, the two riders dressed in black continued their travel north of Paris. The heat from that fiery ball seeped in through their clothes and warmed, lulling them into a sleep-driven haze that numbed them to the soreness of their backsides from a restless night of hard riding. The horses snorted with their weariness, their flesh dulled with dust but slick with sweat.

“Milady, we must stop,” called D’Artagnan to the red haired woman ahead of him, her lighter weight allowing her horse a little more speed.

“The less time we take travelling, the sooner will reach the King,” she shouted back over her shoulder, ignoring the glare the young man gave her.

“If we kill the horses, it will take all the longer to walk to the nearest town with a relay or a hostelry to buy new ones!” he declared, jerking the horse to such a sudden stop that it partially reared against the sharp bite of the bit in its mouth. Milady rode on a bit further before realising her companion was no longer with her and she slowly came to a stop, turning the animal around and going back. There was no point in leaving the boy behind as he was her safe passage through to Calais, even without his uniform. She could handle herself very well with a weapon, but why make the fuss when she could have him take care of any problem that should arise while she escapes? She guided her mount back to D’Artagnan, who had dismounted and was stretching out his bow-legged limbs to relieve the cramp of being stuck in one position for far too long.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded with a glare. He looked at her with all the nonchalant cockiness of his youth, going over to remove his bag from the beast.

“I am resting my horse, unlike you, Milady,” he said slowly, slinging the bag over his shoulder and flipping the reins over the horse’s neck in order to use them as a guide, leading him through a small stretch of field to some nearby trees. Milady followed, still on horseback, sneering at him.

“A soldier who cannot stand more than a night’s worth of riding. What a hopeless fool you are,” she said. He froze and his shoulders bunched up, his knuckles whitening around the leather ropes he held.

“Milady, I prefer to keep my horse alive as it is faster than walking on foot. If you wish to be a fool and ride on, be my guest. I have gotten you out the city safely thus, as far as I see it, I have repaid my debt so if you leave, it means I can return to Paris sooner than we both expected.” Milady paused at this, surprised by his frankness and his sense for such a young man. _What use is he really to me now? I can fend off bandits on my own; I do not need his defense. If he goes back to Paris, however, and tells Athos where I have gone..._

“No, that will not be necessary,” she acquiesced. “You speak sense for a boy. Perhaps the horses do need rest, as we do, along with food. As I am sure neither of us packed any, how about we continue on at a slower pace until we reach an inn of some sort along the road? At least then we can all rest in relative comfort instead of sitting on the ground or tree roots.” D’Artagnan frowned, watching her for several moments before he nodded slowly.

“I can live with that,” he said, retying his bag to the saddle and mounting with a quick hop. It did not take too long for them to reach an inn at Chantilly, one that D’Artagnan remembered stopping at briefly with his friends and Constance on their way to England the first time. Milady left ahead of him and he was forced to unload their bags from their respective horses and bring them inside. The landlord did not recognise him, luckily, in case anyone had actually seen him leave the city and sent someone after him.

“How may I help you, Messieurs?” he asked, setting down the cup he had been wiping.

“Two rooms, landlord, and a hot meal for each of us,” said Milady, drawing a purse from her belt. D’Artagnan frowned at her as the landlord stared, now realising that the man was actually a woman.

“Where did all that come from?” he asked as she opened it and counted out gold.

“That is none of your business,” she answered with a smile, pushing the money towards the innkeeper. “Here is your payment,” she said to him, “and a little extra to ensure your silence should anyone come around asking about us.” He nodded with such an exaggerated and simpering smile that the travelers shared a contemptuous look before they’d caught themselves doing so and he led them upstairs himself to two of his best rooms.

“I do hope Madame and Monsieur will be comfortable. I will have your meals brought presently,” he said, bowing low to them before returning to the main floor. Milady rolled her eyes and took her bag from D’Artagnan.

“We need not have anything to do with each other until tonight when we leave,” she said sharply.

“I think that goes without saying,” said D’Artagnan in just a bitter a tone. “This is a matter of honour for me and business for you, nothing more.” They entered their separate rooms without a backwards glance, shutting the doors with a clack that was doubled due to their in tandem actions.

**(1) We gave King James VI of England several extra months to live as I’ve roughly calculated that we are now in September whereas historically he died in March. We also do realise that we’ve pushed forward the Siege of La Rochelle by several years, but if England has the power to do something sooner, why would they not use it, especially as Buckingham came with such a large fleet?**


	28. Romance & Ruses

A sparrow thrilled a few notes from the window sill before taking to flight in the morning, causing Athos’ eyes to crack open to the light of the world. The musketeer blinked and stared at the top of the canopy above his bed for a second as the haze of sleep slowly faded on his mind, and he groaned inwardly. The lacerations on his back seemed to have been revived by his awakening. He slowly rolled onto his side and stared dazedly at the window, trying to make sense of the abnormally bright light streaming through the glass panels. Morning was never this sunny so late into the season unless…

He practically threw himself off the mattress, and nearly collapsed on the floor when a red cloud of pain veiled his sight and wrenched a gasp out of his lungs. He clutched the side of the bed and waited for the sharp pains in his back to abate. The events of the previous day came rushing back to his memory like a torrent. He straightened himself, slowly this time, and walked over to the table where a porcelain basin was waiting along with a large pitcher of water. After pouring out the liquid, he reached in with both hands and gratefully splashed it on his face, and shoulders, revelling in the cooling sensation.

Listening, he could hear voices in the distance, the slight rumble of men’s voices and the burst of a woman’s laughter in the gardens below, and found himself even more confused. The chill of the water refreshed him, brought on further by the nip of the breeze that blew in, and he tilted his face up into the sunlight with a frown. The sun really was far too high for it to be morning but rather than have to guess at the time, the sudden chiming of bells told him that it was an hour after noon. Turning from the window, he stared at the wall with the locked door leading into the connected room with narrowed eyes, going to the wooden panel and pressing his ear against it. There were the quiet words of a chambermaid and the tinkle of shifting utensils on a tray as it was set down. Buckingham said nothing in reply to the young woman until she left then there was the scrape of a chair and footsteps and the clatter of the knife against a plate. Athos backed away from his post, satisfied at the knowledge of Buckingham’s continued imprisonment yet briefly concerned about the Englishman’s calm. He was not known for his patience – Athos had half-expected a continued sort of tantrum demanding his release – and the ease of which he had settled into his new situation was slightly alarming. He would have to keep a watch on this despite knowing that Buckingham was lacking in an ally who could help him. One could never be too cautious with a prisoner of war.

Dressing quickly in a fresh shirt and black suit, of which he wondered when he had found the time to purchase with all that had happened, he stepped out into the hallway and went to the room next door, nodding an acknowledgement to the two musketeers standing on either side. He reached for the handle when it turned and the door opened, the girl beyond it giving a start upon finding Athos in front of her so suddenly, the tray in her hands jolting slightly.

“Monsieur, I did not expect you there!” she exclaimed. “Please, excuse me for asking, but are you this gentleman’s gaoler, the one staying in the room next to this one?” Athos flinched at the title, a great demotion if there ever was one, but nodded.

“Yes, I am,” he said brusquely. “Is the prisoner fit to be seen?”

“Well, he is eating just now, and I have your lunch here, Monsieur,” she said, holding up the tray slightly bearing a steaming pheasant that had been festively redressed with its feathers, a stick of fresh, crackling baguette, and a bowl of plums along with a bottle of wine and a sparkling glass. He could feel his mouth watering and he swallowed hard.

“Set that in my room and I will deal with it shortly,” he said. “I will see the prisoner now. It is not up to him when and by whom he is visited.” He stepped back to give her space to pass then entered the room, shutting the door behind him. Buckingham ignored him, using his bread to mop up the greasy sauce from his mostly decimated fowl.

“You should know, Athos, that it is horribly rude to interrupt someone’s meal,” he said coldly, sounding as if his nose was a bit stuffed. Athos could see a doctor had seen to his injuries, but nothing else could be done except wait for the swelling and bruising to disappear. Much of his skin was purpled and greyed with marks courtesy of Roderic’s flailing, erratic temper and Athos found he was glad that it had not been him being pummeled under the blows of the thick-fisted German.

“You seem to have settled in well enough,” said Athos critically. Buckingham scoffed.

“You expected me to be making escape attempts? Athos, I am no fool. I realise that as soon as I leave this room, I will be killed. My life is worth far too much to be squandered in such a way.” Athos narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but said nothing. The silence stretched out awkwardly between them until Athos decided he would not be getting anywhere with this interrogation (it was hardly worth calling it a conversation.)

“I shall leave you to your meal,” said Athos coldly.

“Good. Your presence is making my stomach churn,” said Buckingham in similar tone. Athos returned to his room, finding the tray left on the table, and went to it to take the still warm baguette, ripping into it with his teeth. He swiped it on the plate, coating it with the pheasant juices. He ripped off a leg and removed the feathers, scattering them on the tray. The meat was heaven on his tongue and his stomach roared contentedly. It had been so long since he had eaten. The bells chimed out the half-hour and Athos paused in his eating, suddenly struck by the realisation that he had never given his report of the previous day’s events to Tréville. Abandoning the mostly gnawed leg and half-eaten baguette and quickly wiping his fingers and face on his handkerchief, he headed for the door and the hall beyond at a swift march.

Tréville's office was in the Queen's 'wing' of the Palais Cardinal, ensuring he remained close to the royals he had sworn to protect, but it was a bit far from where Athos was. He and the others had been given four of the smaller rooms, which were still a fair size larger than their old lodgings, and were definitely put there by Richelieu to be kept out of the way. Athos wished he had grabbed the rest of the pheasant leg or even the bread or a plum before he had left, but the idea of presenting himself before his captain with a face coated in fowl grease or fruit juice or crumbs in his beard was not an appealing notion. He stopped one of Tréville's lackeys in the hall (he could tell who he was by the livery he wore) and asked him to direct him to his office. The young boy led him along to an oak door, made him wait, and entered to announce him.

"Send him in!" called Tréville and the boy held open the door for Athos to enter and shut it behind him once he had. Athos stood stiffly by the door, caught under Tréville's sharp glare. Cane in hand, the man stood from his desk and approached the soldier.

"What are you doing here?" he asked coldly. Athos blinked at him.

"I never gave my report for yesterday's events," he stated. "I am here to give it now."

"You are not to be here until you are well," said Tréville, lifting a finger to point at the door behind him. "Go back to bed and rest."

"I cannot stay in bed like some invalid!" Athos protested.

"That is an order, Athos! Now go before I have you arrested." Tréville turned his back and hobbled to his desk once more, hiding a smirk as he felt Athos' keen glare stabbing him in the shoulders.

"If you so insist on being out of bed then I believe there is a young lady in Her Majesty's company that would be pleased to see you up and about," said Tréville, fiddling with a paper on his desk nonchalantly yet watching the musketeer from the corner of his eye. Athos stiffened even more, if possible, and avoided looking at the captain, focusing instead on the window beyond him.

“Are you taking up residence in my office? Off with you man, and for pity’s sake, get some rest!” With the captain shooing him out the door with a waving hand, Athos quickly departed. He stood in the hall, looking somewhat torn. Dare he ask for an audience with the Queen? Besides, what reason could he give for wanting one? He had no chance to ponder further as a lackey entered Tréville’s office and within moments, the captain was hobbling as fast as he could out the door, looking left and right until he settled on Athos. The musketeer felt a slight knot of anticipation in his gut; what had he done this time to put this Gascon in such a state?

“Good Athos, you haven’t gone too far away,” said Tréville, approaching. “The Queen has sent a request to me seeking that you attend her as soon as you are well enough to do so.” He held out the letter requesting such and Athos took it, gave it the quickest of glances, and found everything as Tréville said. The man smiled at Athos, clapped his shoulder, and returned inside his office quietly save for the tapping of his cane on the floor. Athos had little else he could do except respond to the summons and quickly being that he was awake and about. He headed for the Queen’s chambers, and outside the doors, he paused, his hand lifted to knock. There was no one about to introduce him; should he do so himself? He turned, hearing hurried steps, and saw Monsieur La Porte bustling towards him, huffing.

“Ah Monsieur Athos, Her Majesty was not expecting you so soon!” he exclaimed upon arriving. Athos lifted his shoulders slightly.

“I will introduce you,” said La Porte. “Wait here please Monsieur.” He entered, and with the door open, said:

“Monsieur Athos responding to Your Majesty’s summon.” There was some slight, unexplainable giggling from the women in the room, but it was quickly shushed and the Queen spoke, her tones even and dignified.

“Send him in, La Porte, and shut the door.”

“As you wish, Madame.” La Porte turned to Athos and stepped back against the door to allow him passage and once the musketeer was in the room, he pulled the door behind as he left. The Queen was seated on a canapé in a gown of blue and white, the bodice sparkling with precious stones and the skirts made of soft damask patterned with pale leaf shapes. Her ladies surrounded her on small stools or cushions, mostly embroidering while one read aloud. Athos recognised Constance on the Queen’s right and spared her a quick acknowledging glance as he entered before he bowed to the lady on the canapé. Next the Queen, on her other side, was a young woman holding Thérèse on her lap, who was busy playing with a pretty doll dressed in a green, laced trim gown with shining diamonds around the waist of the bodice. The doll was swiftly abandoned when the little girl noticed his arrival, however, reaching for him with a loud, happy squeal. The young woman grasped her a bit tighter about the waist, but looked to be struggling all the same. Several women laughed lightly as his gaze passed over them, and even Constance appeared to be suppressing a smile, but everyone become suddenly quiet as the Queen spoke.

“It is good of you to respond to me so quickly, Monsieur Athos,” said Anne with a smile. “I had not expected you for some time. I bid that you be sent to me when you had recovered.”

“I believe myself recovered enough to attend Your Majesty,” said Athos, standing from his low bow.

“I wished to thank you for your bravery and devotion yesterday,” said Anne. “You have helped immensely in securing our freedom and soon we shall have His Majesty back where he belongs.” Athos bowed his head in thanks, his hand pressed against his chest.

“Sieur Ange, outside!” cried Thérèse, reaching for him with fingers grasping desperately at the air.

“Ah yes,” remembered Anne, “I promised that we would bring Thérèse on our promenade later, but as you are here, Monsieur Athos, and she wishes to go with you, would you be so kind as to escort Mademoiselle Orianne into the gardens with her?” She gestured to her left and Athos stared in the most disbelieving manner he could save for letting his mouth drop open. Orianne looked up at him over Thérèse’s squirming blond head with a small smile and a deep blush.

Her mousy hair had been meticulously done up with masses of ringlets on the sides of her head and tight bun at the top, pulling all her hair away from her ovular face. She had been powdered and rouged, her lips a slight gnawed red bow, and her clothes had very much been changed for something more sumptuous. She struggled with Thérèse until she was able to stand, the bell-shaped skirts sweeping down around her feet in a wave of earthen browns and clean whites, colours which followed all the way up to the bodice studded with pearls and the sparkling golden swirls on the stomacher that slid down the front of the bodice and covered the corset bindings. Speaking of the corset, he had neither expected her to be so small, almost frail-looking, with her waist cinched tightly under the whalebone and fabric, nor her chest to be so bared. With every breath she took, Athos had to force his eyes away from the creamy valley and the pulse of the smooth swell of her breasts that were so visible to him over the rounded neckline of her dress otherwise his difficulties would become too obvious. He swallowed back the hard lump in his throat.

“If Your Majesty wishes that I escort Mademoiselle and her charge, I have no objections,” he said carefully, doing his best to keep the lustful growl from his voice. She was an innocent, for God’s sake! Why would he even dare? When Orianne was closer to him, he could smell the scent of rose pomade and he gritted his teeth and clenched his hands to keep from reaching for her like Thérèse did for him. He was far too stirred to be ignorant to himself any longer; he was trapped, wrapped about the fingers of this girl just like one of her lace bands on the little wooden bobbins. It took him a moment to feel Thérèse yanking on his shoulder by the cuff of his doublet and he gathered her up, shifting her to one arm whilst offering the other to his pretty companion then walking them from the room. Thérèse rested her head on his shoulder with a contented sigh and Orianne kept her gaze down to the floor until they were far enough away before she too gave an almost relieved sigh. Athos could practically see the tension melt from her round shoulders and felt her nervousness abate as her hand loosened its grip on his upper arm.

“You seem to be well settled,” said Athos. “You do not need to fear anymore. With the Queen’s favour, you are protected.”

“I don’t want to make a mistake,” she whimpered. “They were so nice to me. I would hate to disappoint them.”

“You? Never,” he teased gently. “Forget them for now. We will take a walk in the gardens to clear both our heads and when you come back, you will dazzle them.”

She blinked at him curiously, but when he did not elaborate on why both of them needed this walk, she left it alone. Neither noticed Porthos on duty as they descended some steps from the Queen’s wing into the main hall, but he certainly noticed them, following them with his eyes until they were out of sight, seeing Athos set Thérèse down on her feet and both he and his companion took one of the little girl’s hands, holding her between them and gently swinging her over the steps outside without letting go.

The trees in the gardens were beginning to change colours and the air was breezy with the bite of the oncoming autumn. Thérèse pulled them towards some still flowering bushes until they released her to run ahead, which she did until she got too far for her liking and came back to make sure they were right where she had left them before running ahead some more. Athos reached down and took Orianne’s hand gently in his own, noting the pristine white glove through which he could just make out some her coloured fingertips.

“The dyes never come out do they?” he asked after he kissed her knuckles. Orianne shook her head.

“If there is a way to wash it off without a trace, I do not know it I’m afraid.” They walked together in an easy silence. Orianne shivered a little and Athos wished he had remembered to wear his cloak, but hindsight was always clearer in these matters.

“They gave me all of these pretty things,” said Orianne suddenly, as if she was more speaking to herself than to him. “I have no idea how to repay them. How does one repay such Christian charity? They washed me, they fed me, and they gave me all of these rich clothes. I even have stockings now, see?”

She stopped and he turned to see her lifting the front of her dress up to her knees and he swallowed to try and moisten his mouth, subdued into silence. Her lower legs appeared firm under the snowy white stockings that moulded to the skin and displayed every shape. He briefly noted with a flicker of pride that she still wore the green shoes he had given her so many weeks ago before he put his hands on her own and forced her to put her skirts back down.

“Be careful whom you show that to,” he warned. “If anything, do not show anyone but me and perhaps your brother.”

“Roderic and I are not speaking,” Orianne said sadly. “I have not seen him when we used to talk daily, whenever possible.”

“He is probably just busy,” assured Athos, taking her arm and guiding her along once more. It was quiet and they were alone as it was too early for the Queen’s promenade and the guards were not making their rounds here just yet. Athos paused, looking around to see Thérèse skipping on the uneven garden path between some trees ahead of them, and suddenly pulled Orianne close by the hips. She squeaked and fell against him, panting a little as she looked up at him. His hands shook as he bent down and kissed her mouth firmly, her hands instinctively coming to rest on his shoulders. He probed at her lips with his tongue until he managed to get them to part and then he slipped inside, tasting the sourness of apples and the sweetness of wine. Her sounds were muffled but her hands were curious, coming up together to the back of his neck and playing with some strands of hair. He tugged at her hips, pulling with him between a couple trees, out of immediate sight of the path, and then pressed her flush against him. His heart jolted from the warmth he could feel under his fingertips.

Suddenly, there was a scream and a splash and the two of them broke apart, trembling. Athos stepped around Orianne, who had a hand pressed against her chest, and ran between the trees, tripping over a bush and trampling a few flowers. There was a clearing in front of him with a deep, wide fountain, and through his run, he had not seen a sign of Thérèse. There was a pile of plucked flowers on the ground near the edge of the fountain, and when he put his hands on the stone and leaned in, he could see the blurred shape of a small body. He waded in quickly, hissing from the shock of the cold water drenching his boots, and sloshed over to her, scooping her up in his arms and soaking his front right down to his shirt. Thérèse choked and sputtered, trying to cry at the same time as she coughed up water.

“Athos!” he turned and saw Orianne about to start wading in herself.

“Stay there, I’ve got her,” he called, wading back over to her. Orianne took her from him quickly, before he could say anything, and pressed the sopping, quaking little body to her, completely forgetting that the clothes she wore were not her own to do with as she pleased.

“You’re safe Thérèse, you’re well now,” she said, rocking back and forth.

“Cold!” Thérèse wailed pitifully, her eyes and nose streaming and her body wracked with shivers. Athos climbed out of the fountain, sitting briefly on the edge to remove his boots and dump the water from them before putting them back on.

“I think she has had enough of a walk for today, Athos,” said Orianne, smoothing back Thérèse’s ruined blond curls from her sniffling, pale face.

“Let’s get you two back inside before you become ill,” he said gruffly, unable to fight a tinge of annoyance. He picked up Thérèse and the three of them hurried back inside the Palais Cardinal.

***

In the area of the Luxembourg, De Cavoie stood before a tall, narrow building on whose second floor lived his quarry. With him were two other Cardinal’s Guards, in case he needed to force the young man to accept His Eminence’s invitation, but he hoped that it would not come to that. Leaving the two men at the bottom of the stairs, he climbed up the second floor lodging and knocked on the door. There was some shuffling inside and low, guttural mutterings in a harsh voice, and the door opened onto the still somewhat swollen and bruised face of the young guardsman dressed only in a greyed shirt and breeches that looked to be in need of a needle and thread.

“What do you want?” Roderic demanded. “I was breakfasting.”

“His Eminence the Cardinal wishes a word with you, my young compatriot,” said de Cavoie smoothly. Roderic crooked a brow, or at the very least tried, and waited quietly.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” demanded the captain.

“The end of your little joke, Monsieur,” said Roderic slowly, “because one as esteemed as His Eminence would want nothing to do with me, a simple guard.”

“This is no jibe, Monsieur. You have been summoned for an audience with the Cardinal, and it is best not to make him wait.” De Cavoie stepped back from the door to give him passage. Roderic grabbed his doublet hanging on chair behind him and shrugged it on as he left, continually glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on the man behind him. De Cavoie followed him out, and upon sighting the other two guards, Roderic went to turn against his fellow walker with fists raised, but the hand clapped on his shoulder prevented this. The captain sent the other two soldiers away, leaving the two of them alone.

“I only invited them along in case you were unwilling,” said De Cavoie. “That is, however, not the case thus they were no longer necessary. Let us walk together, my young friend, and I will take you the Cardinal without delay.” Roderic regarded him warily, wringing his hands or playing with his cross.

“I saw you the other day,” said De Cavoie nonchalantly. “One would think you were unappreciative of Monsieur Athos saving your life.”

“I asked him to keep watch over my sister, to keep her from too much harm, not to seduce her and trick her into sin!” snarled the German. De Cavoie chuckled lightly.

“I am sure the Cardinal will be able to help you absolve her. We are almost there, just inside here and through a few passages.” Roderic looked confused, having always come through the front door for his duties, but he followed without questioning it too much. It was not worth the wrath of the representative of the Holy Church in France. De Cavoie pushed a wall to open onto a corridor near Richelieu’s rooms, peered out into the hall to make sure no one was around then waved Roderic out, shutting the wall opening firmly behind him and making sure the tapestry was draped back over it. He crooked his finger to get the younger man to follow him and led him to a set of double doors, opening these and allowing him passage. The room was warm as a fire burned hot in the large hearth, the white marble of the mantle intricately carved and silky smooth. At the table before it, the Cardinal sat, the chair turned half way from the empty tabletop so he could look into the flames. In his lap, Roderic could spy over the desk the ears of an animal and as he was led closer, he concluded it to be a cat. Shocked as he was by the presence of the Devil’s beast in the arms of the Cardinal, he said nothing. _Have I not myself been welcomed before by the arms of temptation and sin?_

“I have brought the young man as you ordered,” said De Cavoie with a bow. Richelieu looked at his captain briefly then turned his attention to the German behind him, tall and chestnut haired (most unlike Teutonic people) yet very clearly blue-eyed when one squinted beyond the puffiness. The boy, barely a man, appeared only early in his twenties and was still quite lanky despite his stocky shoulders. He looked more than a little sloppy. His doublet was unbuttoned, revealing the grey shirt stained and frayed in places, and the cross about his neck was the most ornate thing about him. He had spared no expense when he had bought what he had been able to afford. Richelieu held back a victorious smile. _You are mine_.

“Well done, De Cavoie. You may leave us now,” said Richelieu, stroking along the back of his feline companion and scratching just behind its ears afterward, inciting a rumble of pleasured purrs from the creature. Roderic stood there as the red-headed captain left the two men in silence with the crackling and popping of the fire and the sounds of the cat the only thing between them.

“Monsieur, I believe you are the guard under Des Essarts who intercepted the Duke of Buckingham’s messenger in order to purposely be captured and exact revenge for the supposed death of your sister, correct?” Roderic stared at him, his mouth dropping open in surprise.

“Yes, Your Eminence, that was I. It was a foolish mistake to abandon my post for so long and if I am to be punished, please, I beg you to be merciful to fellow Christian man as devoted to the Church as one so simple as I can be.” He painfully dropped to one knee, his head bowed above it. Richelieu stood, setting his cat on the desk, a white, long-haired, and meticulously groomed beast whose ever-twitching tail vastly unnerved Roderic whilst being stared at by those almost glowing eyes. He did his best to ignore the pet and focus on its master, who was walking around the desk to stand before him.

“Rise, my young soldier of God, and let us see what we can do about your troubles,” said Richelieu gently, folding his hands together. Roderic stood as fast as he could manage, biting his tongue to keep from wincing.

“Your sister has the Queen’s favour, did you know?” he asked the man simply. Roderic shook his head with a bitter look.

“She has not spoken to me since the day that leader of heathens was captured. We fought and she chose Monsieur Athos over me, her own flesh and blood, the very one who has protected her and kept her alive these long seventeen years. She chose to turn to sin, Monseigneur, and I do not know how to save her from her folly for without money, I cannot provide for her!” The Cardinal reached out and put a hand gently on the angered German’s shoulder.

“We will save her from him, Monsieur. She will see the errors of her ways and when she does, she will return to you where she belongs. As you are her guardian, her state falls to you to bear and if she should embarrass herself, it will be not only her who would suffer. Remind her of this and take heart in the love I am sure she still bears for you when she seeks your counsel of what she should do to save herself. She will realise that the only way is to abandon whatever sentiment she has for Monsieur Athos, and if she is too drawn by temptation then you and I will take the steps to break it from her. Do you understand me?”

“Oh, Monseigneur, you are truly one of God’s heralds on Earth! The ease you give my poor heart, it is so hard to bear!” declared Roderic. “Surely there is something, anything, which I can do to repay your kindness?”

“You only need to keep watch over Monsieur Athos and his friends, as where one is involved, all four of them are. If you should hear anything regarding the state of France, for example, which you would regard as suspicious, come to me at once. I shall reward you for your efforts and ensure that you will be well and able to care for the both of you in due time and thus aid her to further see the dangers of her preference for that particular musketeer.” Extending his hand bedecked with solely his ruby ring, Richelieu smiled as Roderic fervently kissed the stone. This man now belonged to him in his entirety, of this there was no doubt in his mind. Taking back his hand, his went to a box on his desk, took a key from about his neck and unlocked it. From within, he took a cloth purse heavy with gold and gave it to the young man.

“Consider this the beginning of any future rewards you shall receive, Monsieur Winterkorn, and go with all the blessings I can provide for you.”

 _Now, Monsieur Athos, you and I shall play a little game_ , he thought as Roderic left without even questioning how the Cardinal had come to know his name, _and the victor will be decided on the field of your shattered heart and the foolish blindness of a sibling’s despair._


	29. Conflicts & Quests

Another day, another round of the garden, Athos thought. He had been taking Orianne for daily walks, even pulling her away from the Queen’s promenade to privately indulge in her newly discovered charms. The trees, with their leafy curtains, offered enough shadow to hide them so long as they made it there, which was much trickier than one could expect. Between Thérèse struggling for his affection and Roderic making efforts to reconcile with Orianne for an argument Athos still did not comprehend.

The sun shone through the leaves that were turning into pleasant shades of red and gold, causing Orianne to wrinkle her nose slightly as she looked up at Athos’ face. “I wouldn’t have thought that we would still have some warm days,” she said, as Athos spared a glance at the antics of the three year old head of blondish curls that was bouncing and dancing around them. “I sometimes forget that you’ve only just recently moved into Paris,” he responded with a half-smile, securing her arm a little more around his own as they followed a path. “I suppose you must have seen winter come much faster where you were before, in Lorraine, I believe?”

“By now, it would be much colder.” She had a little shiver and pressed closer to him. He happily obliged the warmth and indulged in kissing her lips in the process, leaving her several shades pinker than before. He smirked slightly.

“Look!” Thérèse chose that moment to bound into their path and show her latest prize to Athos; a rather large and slimy looking snail, which was crawling on the back of her tiny hand, its antennae extended as far as they could despite her rambunctiousness. Orianne became slightly green. “That’s… very nice, Thérèse…”

“Hold it?” The little girl asked, lifting it as high as she could reach towards the young woman, who was desperately fighting the urge to run away screaming. Athos had to bite his lip to avoid grinning at the situation. Finally taking pity on his companion, he lowered himself to one knee and scooped Thérèse, sitting her on his other leg. “What have we here? Do you know what this is, child?”

“What it?” She asked him, settling on his thigh and examining the creature at eye level, her lips pursed in a thoughtful pout.

“It’s called a snail.” She tilted her head at him. “A… sail?” she tried, after a moment of hesitation. He grinned at her. “Almost. A snail,” he repeated, enunciating clearly. “They come out where it’s really wet, and you don’t see them often when it is sunny. Where did you find this one?”

She extended her other hand and pointed in the vague direction of a large rose bush, still focused on the gastropod. “Over there,” she muttered. Orianne was still keeping well away from them, behind and to the left of Athos, but watching him intently. He glanced back at her standing there, offered her a quick smile, before returning his attention to the girl on his knee. She poked the snail curiously and it withdrew swiftly into its spiral shell, which she reached for when it fell on to the grass, no longer sticking as easily to her slimed finger.

“Perhaps you should go return him home. He needs the wet places to live,” he said, gently setting her back on her feet and handing her the creature. “Run along and look after him. We will be right here waiting.” He stood as Thérèse waddled away in her dress, the hem of which was brown from the collected dirt of her exploration. He felt a hand at his elbow and Orianne was now at his side as Thérèse went farther away with her prize.

“She likes you very much you know,” she said slowly, “and you know so much about the world. Why have you never had children?”

“I have never married,” he said hesitantly. She tilted her head and considered him for a moment or two before looking away down the path at Thérèse who, on returning to them, had been distracted by a white butterfly.

“Children are precious,” she said with a wistful air. “Perhaps someday, should I marry, I will have as sweet a girl as Thérèse.” Athos could not halt his mind rushing ahead of his sense and he felt his palms suddenly break into a chilly sweat within his gloves.

“You are then hoping to wed someday?” he asked her, coughing afterwards to clear his throat of the lump there. She gave him a small smile.

“I almost was married, Athos. You know how well that became. Perhaps it is not meant for me.” At her words, he looked away, not wishing to let her see the twinge of guilt that assuredly flashed in his eyes.

“About that…” With difficulty, he brought his gaze back to her, feeling suddenly and awfully like a child caught misbehaving. “This is… rather hard for me to say, but… I’m the one who caused the tailor’s son to withdraw his request for you.”

Her eyes bore into him with a harsh disbelief and the aggrieved expression on her face kept from him from trying to speak on his own behalf. They had stopped walking; she was frozen in place like a breathing statue. His mouth opened and closed like a fish as he tried to find the elusive words to explain but he quickly stopped as he suddenly recognised where he had seen her expression before: on himself, two years ago, after Venice. The sense of betrayal was almost palpable.

“You stopped the engagement?” she said. Her voice muted with her stupefaction at first then growing shockingly cold and sharp. “You are the reason for which I was locked in my room, for which I was beaten and starved and insulted, abandoned for two days to suffer for something I did not understand?”

“Orianne, I—” Smack! The words died on his lips as he stared in shock, slowly bringing his hand to his cheek, now ornate with a very visible and red handprint. She raised her chin up and glowered at him, and then turned around abruptly, starting to walk away.

“Orianne, please, let me explain!” As he reached for her hand, she started running and quickly disappeared behind bushes at the turn of a path.

“M’sieur Ange! Where Orianne go?” Thérèse screamed as she ran back towards him and almost tripping on every third step. Athos just stood, dazed, staring at the empty space where the young woman had stood a moment ago, and then he sighed. “I don’t know. Let’s just go back inside, little one.” He picked her up and walked back to the palace, hugging the girl closer than what he was used to. She didn’t complain.

***

Porthos rested his hand on the handle of the door to D’Artagnan’s palace room, while Aramis glared at him.

“We should not enter another’s room without their consent, Porthos,” he said sharply. “Now come away from that door and we will go and search elsewhere for the boy.”

Having not seen D’Artagnan for several days, not even in passing, the two musketeers had become concerned over him. His youthful spirit and bravado was a lacking space when the friends gathered together for suppers, something even Athos had noticed in his gruff way, and they had discovered nothing of his whereabouts when questioning others. They had yet to ask Constance, but they had approached Roderic, who had been coming from visiting his sister, he had informed them that he had not seen the Gascon for a bit.

“Odd, when he is normally punctual,” Aramis had remarked. Roderic had simply shrugged and had gone about his business following their questioning. He had nothing else to tell them except that Des Essarts was going to declare him as Away without Leave and have him brought up on charges of desertion if he was not found by the end of the following week, when his regiment, among others, was to leave with the Duke d’Orléans for La Rochelle. Porthos had then decided that more forceful means were necessary thus they now stood outside the boy’s open room, about to search it while Athos was busy with his new mistress.

“If we don’t find the boy then Des Essarts might,” said Porthos. “Do you really want him hung in the Place de Grève?”

“Of course not!” said Aramis, huffing, “but what do you expect to find in his room? Him, fast asleep from so many night guard duties, so tired that he slept for days?”

Porthos opened the door and stepped through. Aramis stood in the doorway for a moment or two uncertainly then followed. The room was as well furnished and as well sized as their rooms, the curtains thrown wide to let in the sunlight. A grey Guardsman’s uniform was folded on the bed, having been picked up, washed, and returned at some point during the time that he had not been seen. Aramis looked left and right quickly then turned to Porthos impatiently.

“Are you satisfied Porthos? He is not here. Let us leave and go look for him elsewhere!”

“Look, Aramis, surely you noticed the clean uniform left on the bed?” said Porthos, withdrawing his head from D’Artagnan’s sparsely filled wardrobe.

“Yes, what of it?” demanded Aramis, his tone as even as if he were speaking to a child.

“Well a servant must have done that, no? This servant may know where D’Artagnan has gone. They do get around more than we do, don’t they?”

Aramis opened his mouth to vehemently protest this, but seeing the simple logic of Porthos’ words, he paused thoughtfully before he spoke.

“How are we supposed to find this one servant among the many in the Palais Cardinal? There must be several that pass through this corridor and still more who take turns cleaning the rooms! It is impossible and you are mad to even think—”

Aramis was cut off by a startled sound behind him and he spun to see a young woman standing in the door frame bearing a duster in one hand and covering her shocked mouth with the other. She was red haired, a small curl of it escaping on the slightly tanned skin of her forehead from under her coiffure, and rather small of stature. Aramis stepped towards her, his hand outstretched.

“Do not be afraid, my dear child. We mean you no harm. Might I know your name?” he asked, gently pulling her hand away from her mouth so he could kiss the back gracefully.

“Héloïse, Monsieur,” she squeaked, blushing rather darkly. Aramis offered her a gentle smile.

“What a lovely name.” Hearing this, Porthos rolled his eyes, chuckling, which Aramis took care to ignore. “My dear Héloïse, are you responsible for cleaning this room?”

“This one and every other along the hall Monsieur,” she replied.

“Excellent! Now, are you the young lady who took this uniform and had it cleaned?” Héloïse pulled away from Aramis, her eyes wide with fright.

“Oh, Monsieur, did I make a mistake? Was I wrong to take it? I put it back where I find it, only cleaned and folded!”

“You made no mistake whatsoever!” explained Aramis, fervently pressing her hands to soothe the young girl. “But you say that you put it right back where you found it, yes?”

“Yes, exactly so, Monsieur. It was thrown across the bed and left there. There was no one in the room when I came to clean.”

“And when was this, pray? How many days ago did you take this uniform?”

“I would say five days ago, Monsieur.”

“Wonderful! Dear sweet Héloïse, you have been most helpful,” said Aramis, kissing her hands still clasped in his. “Thank you. We shall leave you to your cleaning.”

During Aramis’ interrogation, Porthos had moved to stand by the door, and now that it was finished, the two men left. Porthos clapped Aramis on the shoulder, making the shorter man stagger but not fall.

“You could charm the scales from fish, Padre,” he declared, giving a great bellow of a laugh.

“Needless to say, D’Artagnan has not been seen since after Athos captured Buckingham,” said Aramis in all seriousness, “thus he seemingly vanished the very same day. The remaining question is where did he go?”

***

After days of travel along much of the same route as he had taken with his friends and Constance on their retrieval of the Queen’s diamonds, D’Artagnan had never expected to arrive in Calais in such a state. He tugged at the stiff, starched collar that encircled his neck and Milady slapped his hand away sharply.

“Stop fiddling, boy, else you will ruin the whole thing!” D’Artagnan offered her only a bitter glare from under his newly donned hat plumed with a spill of light coloured feathers that were pinned with a sapphire brooch. His hair was just as stiff as the collar, held in tight curls with more pins than he had ever seen, and he snuffled irritably at the smell of himself bathed in lavender pomade. Milady had thought it best he come in a disguise in case he was recognised from his previous voyage. There had been some strangely curious looks at him before he’d been disguised, looks that he could only think of as piercing and made his shoulders itch and the hair on the back of his neck prickle when he thought about them. Milady had explained it away, with such nonchalance, as a possible bounty on his head placed by Richelieu from before the Affair of the Diamonds, it bothered him more, and when he pointed out that she had not changed her clothes, she had only smiled at him in her ingratiating way. This was her disguise, she had said, as everyone had seen her in better attire. He now had a very good reason to dislike her, perhaps even hate her, for this embarrassment.

There was an appreciative whistle to his left as the pair passed some men seated around a table near a window at a tavern and the Gascon flinched, beginning to make the gesture to reach for his nonexistent blade, its missing weight on his hip leaving him with an extreme sense of nakedness. He stared daggers into Milady’s somewhat bared shoulders and cursed himself for not yet having grown any sort of facial hair. The redheaded woman suddenly spun around to face him and he stumbled, stepping back onto the hem of skirts that swished about his ankles and almost falling. He was developing a new respect for Constance quicker than he could have ever imagined.  

“When I speak to the ship captain, keep your fan up in front of your face. No amount of rouge or face powder can hide the unfortunate line of your jaw,” she said, “and most of all, follow my lead. Say nothing. There is little chance of your donning a woman’s voice at your age.” D’Artagnan bristled, his shoulders bunching like an angry cat, one hand tightening around the white lace fan it held in its furious grip, but he said nothing save for showing his teeth gritted in a false smile behind painted lips. _If any of those three find out about this, I will never live it down_. He had argued with her, he had protested with every excuse he could muster, and yet all had failed. They had entered a tailor’s shop, he was fitted for a dress, and now he was wearing it in Calais, in public, with Milady as his ‘guide’ and travelling companion.

“It is no wonder that Athos could no longer stand you!” he hissed. She grabbed his shoulder, jerking him forward harshly.

“Funnily enough, his kiss when we met said otherwise,” she spat. “That is enough of your comments. For the first time in your short, miserable life, keep quiet and do as you’re told.”

“Ho there, Monsieur, what are you doing to this young woman?” Milady turned and D’Artagnan fumbled with the fan for a moment before managing to open it and hold it up in front of his face until only his eyes were visible over it. A blond man stood there in a brown suit with a face that was unfortunately familiar to the both of them.

“Jussac,” muttered D’Artagnan. Milady shot him a glare from under her broad hat, reaching up to preen the false, horse-hair moustache that she’d wet and stuck to her upper lip. She coughed a few times to deepen her voice and with a rough, gravely tone, she spoke.

“Monsieur, do not concern your person with our affairs. I am this young lady’s travelling companion and she is in no danger with me.” Jussac narrowed his eyes suspiciously, eying Milady carefully. She held her head high and proud, staring back at him. D’Artagnan tucked himself behind Milady’s narrow frame, hoping to cover as much of his face as possible. There was no way Jussac would have forgotten how the young Gascon had humiliated him in Cooper’s Yard.

“Your accent is English,” remarked Jussac, starting to smirk. “I am afraid that you are on the wrong side of the Channel, Monsieur, and in a country at war with your own.”

“I am aware of this,” Milady growled lowly. “We are trying to return to England. We want no part in Buckingham’s foolish war and my lady Ketty (1) must return for her sake of her health.” With this, D’Artagnan did his best to make a few dainty coughs to validate Milady’s words, only they come out rough and forced. It seemed, however, to convince Jussac, whose expression became almost concerned.

“Perhaps I can help you as a servant of His Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu,” said Jussac slowly, furrowing his brow. “I should be able to secure you safe passage across the Channel, perhaps even a pass to accompanying you both to the opposing shore.”

“That would be most excellent, Sir,” said Milady, fighting the smile that was beginning to grow on her face in the unexpected circumstance. “Your company would be most valuable to us in this matter.” D’Artagnan fought to breathe through his anger whilst being trapped in the cinched corset, his ribs feeling as if they were dueling with how close they were pressed together. Jussac removed his hat and bowed to them both, even taking D’Artagnan finely gloved hand and kissing the back, before he began to march down to the docks. When the guard was out of sight, D’Artagnan rounded on Milady furiously.

“What are you playing at?” he demanded. “How the hell are we going to get rid of him if he crosses the Channel with us? Surely you don’t expect me to wear this thing the entire trip!”

“As a matter of fact, I do, young Gascon. You see, if two men and a very short woman enter the ship then the same people must get off later. You can hardly expect us to swap roles once aboard and not be noticed. Besides, I think Monsieur Jussac is quite smitten with you.” She smiled at seeing him visibly shudder, like a duck shaking water from its feathers.

“Calm yourself, boy. If anything, you may fake sick during the entire voyage and stay in the cabin out of sight until we arrive in Dover.”

“That still does not get rid of Jussac,” said D’Artagnan through gritted teeth. “I will still have to wear this in England.”

“The end justifies the means,” said Milady sharply. “And this disguise, along with your pretty features, could very well get us where we need to go. Trust me.”

“If I remember right, the last time someone trusted you, they were horribly betrayed,” muttered the young man darkly.

“Last time, there was not the potential of a substantial reward from the Royal Treasury and the gratitude of a King to be earned,” said Milady. “Now be quiet, I can see him coming back. My, that was quickly settled.” Jussac strutted towards them, preening his moustache between his fingers and smirking victoriously.

“Monsieur, Mademoiselle, we will be leaving within a short while. The captain of the ship at the end of the docks has kindly accepted to bring us across despite the present blockade.” He waved carelessly out towards the open water where Milady and D’Artagnan just now took note of the bobbing masts and furrowed sails of some of the English naval fleet just beyond Calais. “He apparently has passage to cross the Channel for whatever reason, I did not ask. Until we are able to board, however, may I ask that you both accompany me for a drink?”

“How can we refuse you this simple pleasure when you have offered us so much?” said Milady, lightly pushing D’Artagnan to take Jussac’s offered arm. He kept the fan between them and coughed a few times to maintain his pretense of illness, which was not difficult given that the looks he caught occasionally from the guard, made his stomach to turn and kept a gagging sensation trapped in his throat.

**(1) For those of you who are curious, Ketty was the name of Milady’s servant in the original French of the novel The Three Musketeers whereas in the English versions, her name is Kitty. We chose to use the name from the French.**


	30. Love, Like, and Lust

“I am tired of interrogating the servants,” drawled Porthos, stretching his arms above his head after the last of the thirty or so they had approached had scurried back off to his duties. “We are making absolutely no progress and I would much rather be spending a beautiful day such as today outside in the sunshine rather than cooped up in this stuffy castle.”

“You can go outside and bumble about like some child,” said Aramis slowly as he extended his hand upwards in his usual manner of draining the blood to maintain its whiteness. “Whilst I remain here to garner the merit of finding our wayward Gascon.”

Porthos bit at his mustache, clenching and unclenching his thick fists at his sides for a moment or two before he found his words.

“You are such a bore,” he pouted. “How many more good days do you think we will get before the cold season is upon us? Let us also not forget that war is drawing near.”

“Are you afraid you will freeze, Porthos?” taunted Aramis with a cat-like smirk of contempt.

“It is more likely that you will first rather than I, Padre,” said Porthos, patting his hand against his fuller stomach. Aramis rolled his eyes, but did not respond. This argument was over, as far as he was concerned.

“Monsieur Aramis, Monsieur Porthos, how are you doing on this fine day?” said a voice, approaching them from behind. Aramis turned to see La Chesnaye, the King’s personal valet, drawing near to them.

“Ah, La Chesnaye!” exclaimed Aramis. “I am very happy to see you. We are looking for D’Artagnan. Have you seen him recently?”

The servant blinked confusedly and twirled his mustache thoughtfully before he spoke: “Not for a number of days, Monsieur Aramis. I believe that the last I saw of him, he was leaving the palace and heading south east.”

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance and the latter smirked. “It appears we will have to get some fresh air after all.”

“Overgrown child,” muttered Aramis before turning back to La Chesnaye. “Thank you. I appreciate the information. If you happen to see the Gascon, would you mind telling him that we are looking for him?”

“I will keep that in mind, Monsieur. I bid you good day.” La Chesnaye bowed respectfully and resumed his way. As the two musketeers walked, Porthos spoke up.

“So speaking of the war…” he began.

“Yes?”

“Have you made any headway into procuring some equipment?” Aramis stared at him.

“Have you not even started yet?” he asked incredulously. “Porthos, we are leaving for La Rochelle in little more than a week!”

“How did you manage to get everything then?” Porthos demanded. “All of our weapons were damaged in some way or another and anything else we owned was destroyed in that blasted fire.”

“Surely you are not so ignorant, Porthos. I thought you had a duchess or two who would be happy to equip you for a campaign. Would they not hate to see you march to war with nary the clothes on your back?”

Porthos became sullen looking, scuffing his boot on the floor in an irritated way.

“They would love to see me like that since I left Paris without a word when we went after the Queen’s diamonds,” he replied. Aramis reached up and grasped his shoulder firmly, giving it a little shake.

“Porthos, I am sure that with your charms, you will be able to endure the wrath of your mistresses. Besides,” continued Aramis, “regardless if the King is here or not, we still require having our equipment ready.”

“You don’t think that we’ll be ordered to follow the Duke d’Orléans or even Richelieu?” said Porthos.

“Neither,” said Aramis firmly. “D’Orléans will have enough men with him what with several companies of guards heading to La Rochelle first.”

“And what are they going to do?” asked Porthos with a brief bark of a laugh. “Throw their muskets at the airships? The Duke didn’t get rid of all of them.”

Aramis shrugged nonchalantly saying: “And I recall that d’Orléans was rumoured to have captured at least two of the ships. There is always the ground army for the soldiers.”

“Aramis, the ships need only to throw something off their sides to kill people,” snapped Porthos.

“Are you trying to tell me you are afraid of the English with their nasty ships, Porthos?” asked Aramis. Porthos’ face reddened considerably and he towered over Aramis like an angry bull.

“I said nothing of the sort,” he declared with a bellow, “you lip-flapping priest!”

“Porthos, you are insufferable!” said Aramis sharply. “I could discover more without your blundering about.”

“And I could find more without your silly, grand airs!” said Porthos, annoyed. “Because, last I thought, you were not Athos by any means.” He stomped off along the hall and down the nearby stairs before Aramis could get out another word. Aramis stood there silently, his face a picture of cold anger, fists clenched so tightly they shook, and his eyes blazing. He spun on his heel and began to head back the way he’d come, unwilling to exit the same way Porthos had. His march took him back into the palace, in the direction of the gardens, and as he came to a flight of stairs, he found a young noblewoman seated at the bottom. His steps on the marble startled her and she jumped to her feet only to turn and fall on the floor in a flurry of white, gold trimmed dress and flouncing white underskirts. Aramis hurried down, offering his hand, removing his hat with the feather trailing on the ground.

“Please, Madame, forgive me,” he said as he took her flailing hand as it struggled to find purchase. “Let me help you up.” Upon tugging her up into a sitting position, she looked up at him and gave a weak smile.

“Are you all right?” he asked, half-lifting her to her feet. She shuffled around with her skirts for a moment or two, straightening them nervously.

“I am used to falling over, Monsieur Aramis,” she said quietly. He blinked at her, surprised that she knew his name, and then peered at her face.

“Orianne? My, how you have changed!”

“Her Majesty and her friends are very generous.”

“Indeed they are,” said Aramis, with a slightly wane smile. “But you appear to have been crying, I see. What is troubling you?”

“It is not important,” she muttered. “I trusted someone I never should have is all.”

She sniffled and frowned miserably, watching him for a moment or two.

“You too seem bothered,” she said slowly. “Your face is very red.” Indeed, Aramis could feel the heat from his previous sudden rage yet to leave his cheeks. He waved his hand through the air as if to brush away the problem.

“I had a disagreement with Porthos that left me quite vexed,” he said.

“Vexed?” she repeated, confused.

“Or as you said: bothered. He went his way and I was heading mine, and I doubt we shall either see each other or speak for the rest of the day.”

“That does not seem very nice.”

“It is how these problems are settled,” he said with a shrug. “We should be fine tomorrow.

“I wish my problems were just as easily resolved,” she sighed, tugging off her gloves.

“Now, what happened with you?” he asked. “I thought you were with Athos this morning. He can be a bit harsh at times. Did he do something that bothered you?”

“I suppose so, yes,” she replied, nibbling at her bottom lip quietly for a moment or two and wrapping her arms about herself bracingly. “He did something that vexed me.”

“Would you care to tell me about it?”

“I was looking for a priest,” she said quickly. Aramis nodded.

“And you became lost.” When she nodded, he held out his crooked arm and replaced his hat on his head. “Come. I shall take you to Notre Dame.” She looped her arm through his and let him lead her back out into the gardens and past their walls into the Paris streets. They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes before Aramis spoke.

“So you are in Her Majesty’s favour?”

“I suppose,” she shrugged. “She and her ladies seem to enjoy my being around. It’s different. They talk and laugh a lot. They also like to dress me up.” She blushed, giving a small shy sort of laugh.

“I think you look lovely for their efforts.” He squeezed her hand gently with a warm smile. Her face darkened even further and she looked down and away. The cathedral loomed ahead, the would-be sounds of hammering drowned out by the ringing bells. As usual, on the steps were several beggars, men and women, reaching out to passerby with pleas for charity, of which most were ignored. Aramis and Orianne did the same as the passing people, almost stepping over the mendicants to enter the sacred building, and the young woman gasped upon entering, listening to her voice echo off the high walls and arched ceilings. As they walked, she could see small rooms off to the sides, which Aramis pointed out to her as the chapels of Saint François-Xavier and Saint Geneviève, and wooden pews in horizontal rows lining either side of the nave. The sunlight shone down from the north and south rose windows, making circles of rainbow light on the floor on either side of the altar.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. She drew away from Aramis and approached the altar, unwilling to climb the two small stairs to go closer. Aramis stayed back a few paces, his hat removed once more and held in one hand as he looked around, his faint smile almost reminiscing.

“Aramis?” He was drawn from his revelry to her watching him with a gentle smile of her own, her curls tinged pink as she stood in the light of one of the windows. “Are you feeling better?”

He blinked almost dumbly for a moment or two before he nodded. “Do not concern yourself with my petty dispute. It will be over with by tomorrow. I brought you here to try to settle your own problem. Let me see if I can find the priest.”

Aramis went back to the chapels they had passed earlier, but found no one there. He returned to Orianne, vaguely confused.

“Perhaps the Father is busy elsewhere,” he said. Orianne looked down, her gloves crinkled in her hands.

“You could light a candle here,” said Aramis. “Say your prayers, ask God for forgiveness and solace for what troubles your heart.”

“Aramis, if I told you what I did, do you think he would forgive me?” she asked.

“I do not think we are discussing the same being here,” said Aramis with a crooked brow. He moved over to a pew and sat, patting the space next to him invitingly. She sat, picking nervously at her fingernails. Aramis watched as a tear slowly trickled down her cheek through the rouge on her cheek, just one, and disappeared under her chin.

“Athos lied to me. I was engaged once when I still lived with my parents and he ruined it.”

“He never mentioned it,” said Aramis, more than a little confused, and not liking the feeling in the least, but he did not try to rush her.

“He didn’t tell me how he did it, just that he had. My father hurt me and my mother locked me in my room for days. I wasn’t allowed food or water. Then Athos came by one day when I was still locked away and he let me out and he fed me.”

“And never told you what he had done.” She shook her head, her mouth twisted as if she had swallowed a sour grape. The expression did not suit her well. Aramis took pause and tried to think back, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He vaguely recalled Athos on the stairs of their old home, unwilling to move, but little else came to him so he turned back to Orianne.

“Did he tell you why?” he asked curiously. She shook her head again. He frowned.

“Why not?” It seemed odd that Athos would do something without cause. Orianne suddenly looked ashamed.

“I didn’t give him a chance. I hit him before he could explain and then I ran.” She mimed hitting Aramis on the face, completely missing him, but he understood all the same and pinched his lips to keep from chuckling. The image in his mind, of Athos being struck dumb in such a manner, was more amusing than he cared to admit.

“Might I suggest that you speak to him?” he said gently, rubbing the back of her hand. “Give him a chance to explain to you his reasons. He is one of my closest companions, and he has never been known to do anything without reason.”

“You want me to go back and trust him, even though he lied through his teeth?”

“Did he though?” She opened her mouth then closed it, making a noncommittal sound in her throat. Aramis watched her, his expression one of hopeful insistence. She sighed and stood. He got up to let her pass.

“I want to go back now,” she said. “As for talking to Athos, I have no idea where he went or if he will want anything to do with me. I would not.”

“If you are so uncomfortable with the idea of speaking to him then why do I not write a letter on your behalf?” She shook her head with a small smile.

“It won’t be necessary, Monsieur Aramis. I can write it myself.” He stared at her, surprised.

“Pardon my asking, but who taught you?”

“Athos did. He helped me with my reading.” Aramis became silent, suddenly drawn deep into his own thoughts. _I need to re-evaluate his level of patience._ He took her arm once more and led her back outside. The beggars glanced at them briefly, but ignored them. Aramis tugged at Orianne’s arm, but she refused to budge, staring almost horrified at two of them. The man and woman were scruffy like any other beggar he’d seen. The woman wore several dirty glass rings on her short, thick fingers. The man sat next to her swaying, his face flushed with drink. Orianne dug her nails into Aramis’ arm, trying to hide behind him.

“My parents,” she whimpered.

“Come on. Leave them. There’s nothing we can do.” She was frozen in place, watching them. Aramis tugged at her harder.

“If you stare like that, they will recognise you. Come with me.” She let go of Aramis’ arm, stuck her hand up her sleeve, and withdrew a pouch jingling with coins. She threw it down on her mother’s apron, grabbed Aramis, and pulled him away quickly whilst ignoring the thankful cries.  

“Where did you get that money?” he asked, holding his hat to his head.

“Her Majesty likes lace so I make it,” said Orianne simply. “Hurry, please just hurry.”

***

Meanwhile, Porthos had stomped off in the direction of Notre Dame ahead of Aramis and then continued on further.

“Who does he think he is?” said Porthos to himself, kicking a loose cobblestone. “I can find out just as much as he can.” He plowed his way through the busy streets, people giving a wide berth as he passed so as not to be trod underfoot in his distraction and his blustering anger. He found was passing before the Lost Man tavern when he was suddenly stopped as he collided with another, much shorter man. Porthos stumbled back a step or two while the other man staggered and fell against the doorway of the neighbouring building.

“Watch where you’re going, you drunk,” snapped Porthos. The man shook his head at him as he stood.

“Porthos, if this is how you treat your comrades out of uniform then I would hate to see how you treat your enemies!” Porthos looked marginally apologetic.

“La Buissonnière, do forgive me.”

“Jacques, please, Porthos. We have patrolled often enough together by now and I’d rather forget my unfortunate last name (1),” chuckled the blond man.

“Why? You always come for your guard duty,” said Porthos confused. La Buissonnière waved his hand.

“Be that as it may... Let us forget that for now. Nothing can be done to change a name. Why are you storming around like a whipped horse?”

“Aramis is as dull as parchment.”

“You two are always going for the other’s throat. Will you two ever quit?”

“Most likely not. He is, at times, the worst sort of man to be a musketeer.”

“We all have our faults, Porthos. You are the most vainglorious scoundrel around after all.”

“I did not come here to be insulted by a mouse!” Jacques de La Buissonnière smirked at that and bowed mockingly.

“Have you had any luck finding your young apprentice yet?” he asked suddenly. Porthos narrowed his eyes.

“No. Why?”

“I have a suspicion that I might be able to help you.”

“Why have you said nothing before now?” Porthos demanded.

“Because I did not think of it until fairly recently, Porthos, so please calm down else I shall tell you nothing. I do not like to be bullied.” Porthos crossed his arms over his barrel chest and frowned down at the brown-eyed blond headed man sternly.

“Then speak! I do not have all day!”

“The day the Duke d’Orléans arrived with his army, I was on the east wall near the Bastille. During the fighting, I saw two men, or maybe two women as they were both rather thin, heading out of the city while the English fled and the army came in. They grabbed two horses and took off, heading north.”

“That’s it?” asked Porthos sceptically. Jacques shrugged.

“That is all I have to offer you, friend. It’s what I saw.”

“Fine, it will have to do. It’s the clearest clue we’ve gotten from anyone all day. Thank you.”

“I hope you find him. It would hardly be fair for him to be hung or shot, but if he actually truly deserted, well, that would be another matter entirely I suppose. See you in couple of days?”

“Well, I have guard duty, don’t I?” Jacques smiled and gave a half-bow to Porthos then marched off down the street. Porthos spun to head back the direction he’d come, smiling victoriously. _We’ll see who the blundering fool is now!_

***

The boat pitched and bobbed on the waves of the English Channel. The wind was unfavourable and slowing them down immensely. Milady stood on deck with Jussac, discussing Milady's 'plan' for bringing 'Lady Ketty' back to London, while D'Artagnan hid himself in the Captain's cabin, which had been offered to him and Milady upon their arrival, faking seasickness. It had worked so far, Jussac being kept well occupied by Milady, who seemed to have slowly come to realise the danger he imposed on being there with them and doing her best to keep him far from the poor Gascon.

 _Trust her_ , D'Artagnan thought, _I'd sooner trust a thief with a knife at my throat_. He had little choice, however, and kept himself locked away, infinitely pacing the compact room and trying to stay standing with every throw of the vessel. He was not used to sea travel, having only experienced it once thus far, and being that he was strapped in a corset, in which he could barely breath, and tottering about in small, beribboned shoes, his balance was a horrible mess. This was why, when the door to the cabin suddenly began to creak open, he fell half onto the Captain's bed, his legs splayed sideways, and he pulled himself up the rest of the way. His surprise guest was not Milady; he could tell simply by their entrance. She came in quickly, without pause, whereas whomever it was now was trying to give him, or rather 'Lady Ketty', sufficient notice of their arrival. He managed to shove his feminine hat on his head and low over his face before they truly entered, rolling on his side and categorically turning his back to his unexpected guest. 

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but I wished to know how you were faring," said Jussac, quietly shutting the door behind him. D'Artagnan tried to keep calm, but he could feel his heart beating like a marching drum in his breast and beads of sweat on his forehead. At least he no longer had to fake sick, courtesy of his stomach's sudden turmoil. He did not respond, hoping that his silence would encourage the guard to leave, but either Jussac was incredibly dense or incredibly stubborn as he did not depart, instead drawing closer to the bedside.

“Are you awake?” he asked, placing a hand on ‘Ketty’s’ shoulder and leaning over ‘her’. “It is rather rude not to answer a well-meaning question if you are.” D’Artagnan fought his instincts to strike Jussac hard in the mouth, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the hat that sheltered his face along with his hair.

“Come now my dear,” crooned the Cardinal’s guard. “You are unwell, yes, but I am sure you can spare me a glance.”

 _I would much rather shoot you right between the eyes_ , thought D’Artagnan, grinding his teeth. He felt a tug on his hat brim and the Gascon held tighter to it.

“Please... Leave me be,” he whimpered, trying desperately to keep in role. Jussac must have smiled as his tone changed.

“Ah, you are awake after all! Are you feeling ill?” D’Artagnan managed to give something of a nod despite being half hidden by the hat. Suddenly the boat pitched sharply and both Jussac and D’Artagnan fell, the guardsman with a yell and the Gascon with an almost feminine squeak, toppling to the floor together. When D’Artagnan straightened himself managed to get his bearings, he looked down to see Jussac underneath him, staring, with his mouth hanging open in shock and they were nose-to-nose, far too close for him. D’Artagnan sat up on his knees, the extra layers of skirts coming between himself and the hips of the man under him, but he knew it was hopeless to continue playing an act.

“Well, this is not what I expected,” said Jussac slowly, his shocked expression slowly morphing into an easy smile. “But I suppose you will have to do.” D’Artagnan visibly cringed, using Jussac’s chest to brace against as he pushed himself off, feet spread to rest on either side of Jussac’s frame at the hip.

“What in the world do you mean by that?” D’Artagnan demanded, looking a mixture of flustered and disgusted. Jussac cocked his head with a smirk.

“Surely you are not naive...” Suddenly, Jussac slid away on his back; hooking his feet about D’Artagnan’s ankles and making him tumble back onto the cot-like bed. Then he quickly got to his feet and pinned the boy, dress and all, gently stroking a finger down the side of his pale face.

“I must say, although breeches look better on you, the dress does something quite nice for your shoulders,” he said, giving them a squeeze. D’Artagnan tried to buck and squirm, but it only seemed to make things worse. The skirts that once seemed thick and protective were now his greatest impediment and the constriction on his breathing did not help in the least.

“You are not going to deny me one little kiss, are you?” said Jussac, leaning in. “Not with what I could tell your mistress, your captain, and your friends about this...”

Suddenly, the door opened and Jussac pulled away quickly. The newcomer was quiet until they began to laugh almost uproariously and D’Artagnan realised that it was Milady. He regained his breath and sat up just as Jussac left, eying Milady with great distrust (about the only sensible thing he had perhaps ever done), and Milady shut the door behind him with a snap as she still chuckled.

“Ah, my poor young friend, did he give you a hard time?” she asked coyly. D’Artagnan sneered at her.

“I never took you for a crude person,” he remarked sharply. “A traitor, yes, but crudeness seems beyond you.”

“Aw, it appears the little boy had a scare,” she cooed mockingly. “Do you need to make it all go away?”

“What were you doing? You were supposed to keep him away from me!”

“He has a mind of his own, boy, as do you and I. I am not in control of him. I take he recognised you?”

“You wanted my help so I am telling you not to let this happen again.”

“Well, you are not a very nice gentleman,” she pouted. “Maybe I should go see if he wants to resume what he was doing...”

“Please,” ground out D’Artagnan. “I’ll continue this damned charade, but you have to keep him far, far, far away from me. Throw him overboard if it comes to that.”

“Would you like to lock the door behind me? I cannot guarantee that you’ll be safe and sound should something happen to the ship. The crew does not really check the cabins during a crisis.”

“Get out,” said D’Artagnan sharply, but his made up face made him the least threatening person on the boat.

“I will take my chances and hope for your demise,” Milady replied, offering him a sweet smile, and took her leave, hearing the door lock solidly behind her.

“Do not remove those clothes yet my dear,” she called through the door. “Dover is not that far off.” She was met with silence from the other side but she could just imagine the consternated face of the young man who now only wanted to burn the clothes he wore and with them, perhaps, the memory of what had just occurred.

**(1) The reason Jacques says his ‘unfortunate last name’ is because it is was a reference to modern French. _Faire école buissonnière_ means to skip school thus, in this case, skip out on his duties**


	31. Flirts, Trips, and Rescues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for this abhorrently long wait. I could blame the final push to the end of my undergraduate degree, but that would be a lazy person's excuse. After four years of managing my time, it would be absolute garbage to use that. 
> 
> I am sorry it has taken so long for this.

Seated before a table laid bare of all but a map of France covered with small statuettes, it was all Anne could do not to cover her eyes and leave the room to try to quell her headache. Her brother-in-law sat across from her, making several excuses as to why he could not leave to continue chasing down the English that had fled from the city. Richelieu sat to the left of her, resting his head against his steepled fingers and contemplating the plans before him.

"Monsieur, what we ask of you is of the highest importance to the security of France," said the Queen, drawing on the deepest depths of her patience. "The English cannot be allowed to remain with our borders, stirring up revolution amongst the Protestants. We have Buckingham's plans, brought to us with great risk, and we have the companies for you to lead in advance of ourselves while we negotiate the King's return in exchange for England's minister. What more do you require?"

"Your Majesty, are you sure that this map is so accurate? I know where it comes from, but I have heard that your 'singular informant' was nothing but a stupid peasant whom you have been treating like royalty in your Court! Pardon my saying so, but I have serious doubts as to its legitimacy. If this fool is so dense as to have been captured, who is to say that this is not a plan that the English rejected?"

"It is an appropriate concern, Your Highness," said Richelieu slowly. "How can we be sure that these plans truly came from Buckingham's desk when all we have to go on are the words of another foreigner? It is possible that she had no concept of their importance."

"Then please explain to me how she was able to read the name of La Rochelle upon it, Your Eminence!" demanded Anne sharply. "I have complete confidence in the words of this young woman, and she has yet to give any reason for us to doubt her. I would ask that you should take a similar approach as my own."

Richelieu bowed his head in acquiescence, but seethed inside at being scolded so. It was all D'Orléans could do not to snicker at France's minister.

"Very well, Madame," said Monsieur. "But I still do not agree with my being sent away when I could have much more purpose here guarding yourself and Paris until the King's return."

"Monsieur, France owes you a great debt and by helping us again, you will further tip the scales in your favour when you ask for your recompense from His Majesty," said Richelieu. "That is, of course, if your terms against your marriage are unchanged."

"They are and they will remain so."

"Then why not make things as easy for you as possible later?" asked Anne, catching on to Richelieu's scheme. "With the King so indebted to you, how could he refuse you what you desire?"

Gaston chewed at his mustache thoughtfully. "It would be good to have him owe me..."

"The biggest danger to us is that England possesses their armada, both in the sky and on the water. You have taken two of their airships and damaged several others," said Richelieu.

"My men do not know how to truly work that contraption!"

"They will be trained, and quickly," assured Anne. "Cardinal, you made a gift of a flying ship to my husband and, although there was the issue of your saboteur, I believe it was some of Tréville's men who flew it, correct?"

"If you expect me to allow him to have anything to do with training my army--" protested the Duke.

"Yes, Madame, that is right," Richelieu replied, cutting him off.

"Then we will both have them lead the crews and they will teach others should we manage to take more ships that are still of use," said Anne matter-of-factly. "Monsieur, if these men of the King's musketeers, the best we have, were to train some of your army to man these machines, would that be sufficient?"

The Duke nodded with a slight smile. Richelieu frowned, leaning back into his chair and resting his elbows on the arms.

"Excellent; I do hope that two days will be enough for them to share their knowledge, and then, Monsieur, you and your army will march and fly for La Rochelle in all haste. The English must be stopped. Are you agreed to this?"

"I am." The three of them stood from their seats. Monsieur bowed to the Queen, as well as he could with a table in front of him, and left. Richelieu remained for a moment, watching La Porte, who had appeared as if from nowhere, come and begin to clear the map and roll it up. He then left, paying reverence to the Queen as he did, and hastily returned to his rooms, a plan to regain credit churning in his capital brain.

"Joseph!" he called insistently and his Grey Eminence appeared before him almost magically, as if he had popped up through the parquet floor, his arms folded and his mouth turned in a frown.

"Find me paper and ink," demanded the Cardinal. "I must write to my engineers immediately." Joseph raised a skeptical brow.

"This new found energy may leave you in bed, Monseigneur," he said calmly. "Your constitution--"

"Damned be my constitution," snapped Richelieu. "They must change my herald on the fleet to that of the King."

"I do not understand," said Joseph. "Change your crests? Whatever for? Have your ambitions had a change of heart?"

"It does not do for you to question my motives! Get me a quill, some ink, and some parchment, and quickly."

 

***

The edges of the cup in front of Athos seemed to become increasingly blurry. It was not, however, that he was drunk, despite how much he wished he was. For the better part of perhaps two hours, the musketeer had been sitting there on his chair, alone in the furthest and darkest corner of his favourite tavern, and had stared fixedly at the red liquid in the brass container as if unable to bring himself to lift it to his lips.

In fact, he could not. Worse even, he didn't want to. He sighed quietly and slowly pushed the cup away. Several of the patrons of the establishment whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to watch Athos regularly drink himself into a quiet stupor gasped or started muttering amongst themselves. Alerted by the noise, the owner made his way into Athos' corner and offered him a deferent smile. It would not do, after all, if one of his most devoted clients found something wrong with his stock.

“Is something wrong, Excellence?”

Athos looked up at him for a few seconds, slightly confused, and then he shook his head with the merest of twinkles of mirth shining in his eye. “With the wine, absolutely nothing. I just don't wish to drink today.” The horrified expression on the tavern keeper's seemed almost too comical for him to withstand. He rose from his seat and pressed a few coins in the trembling man's hand then he walked across the tavern and out the door.

With nowhere particular to go, Athos decided to head back in the direction of the Palais Cardinal, hoping to perhaps sleep away the guilt that still gnawed at his gut. Wine would not take this away, as he normally wished it would for many of his problems and secret burdens, and he knew sleep was the coward's way to go. Yet he never was one for neither apology or grand, heartfelt confessions, even to himself. He was too embittered by his experience to think that soft poetics would ease the pain he had caused yet he had the vaguest notion of borrowing a leaf from Aramis' book and trying despite all that stood against him. First he would have to return to the palace and find Orianne, wherever she could have hidden herself from him, and then... Well, he would decide afterwards what his next course of action would be. He glanced up briefly from his dark contemplation of the cobblestones to turn into the courtyard, seeing a couple walking in as well from the corner of his eye, but he did not bother to look until one of them called out.

"Athos, this is a surprise. We were just talking about you." It was Aramis. The older man turned to see Orianne on his friend's arm, but when Athos tried to catch her gaze, she looked down and away, chewing at her bottom lip and Athos fought down a frown at his friend, so notoriously known for the attentions he gave to young, pretty women and received in kind. Aramis seemed to give her a little nudge, pushing her gently towards him after he had extricated his arm. She began to wring her hands. He shuffled his feet.

"If you could find a way to forgive me--" "I wanted to apologize--" The words tumbled out and mixed together into an incomprehensible mess between them and they both fell silent once more, unconsciously waiting for the other to begin again. Aramis could only smirk, slowly shaking his head at the scene before him of the two flustered lovers, stepping back to give them some semblance of privacy. He looked out the gates and down either side of the road, observing the passing people with an almost bored air until he spotted a familiar figure approaching and frowned then looked the other way and frowned even more. Athos opened his mouth to speak again when a voice cut him off.

"It seems this is a popular gathering place," stated Roderic drily. He was dressed in a brown, woolen suit of a short-waisted doublet with slashed sleeves and polished brassy aglets and matching breeches, not much to notice about it beyond being clean. There was a young woman on his arm, perhaps no more than 18, pretty and fair despite a missing eyetooth in her smile and the somewhat revealing cut of her dress around her bust. Porthos came up from the other side of the gate, practically strutting, with a victorious smile.

"I finally found you Aramis, and I have something to tell you," he boomed before he noticed Roderic's companion. He examined her curiously, unsure as to why had the slight idea that he knew her from somewhere.

"Roderic, I have not seen you in so long!" said Orianne, smiling a little nervously. "How are you? I hope you have not been pushing yourself too hard. You look tired."

"I am a soldier. It is a tiring duty, but a worthwhile one," he said.

"You should not exhaust yourself. You would be no use to anyone passed out in bed," said Athos. "And your sister would worry."

"She has plenty of other things to worry about more than I," he said, nodding towards the palace with a tight smile before he addressed Orianne again. "The Queen keeps you very busy. I hardly have a chance to see you. I hope you are still making time for your prayers."

"I just came from Notre Dame, actually," she said, the tension beginning to ease from her shoulders. "Monsieur Aramis brought me."

"Good," he nodded his thanks to the musketeer. "I am glad to hear it. I have not been there myself as there is a small church near my home that I quite like."

"They have come a fair way with the repairs to the cathedral," said Aramis amicably, "and have reopened it to parishioners. If you and your lovely companion would like, I could take you there as well and show you both around." Athos would never manage to have his necessary conversation with Orianne if Roderic was around. It would only likely to cause the short-tempered German to attack him again if he found out that Athos had indirectly been the catalyst to his sister's torment.

"If you should go, you must be careful," warned Orianne. "Roderic, I saw our parents begging at the doors. I gave them money--"

"Why the Devil would you do that?" demanded Roderic. Orianne looked at him, shocked.

"She did so because she has a kind, forgiving heart," said Athos, coming to her defense. Roderic's companion tried to catch his arm and lead him on, but he shrugged her off. Porthos watched this with an amused grin and Aramis turned his head back and forth like watching a particularly interesting jeu de paume (1).

"They did not deserve your charity," continued Roderic, ignoring Athos. "After all they had done to us; they deserve every part of their misery."

"Roderic, they were not nice to us, but wishing anyone such a life is unfair and cruel of you," she said sadly.

"What has happened to you? You've changed. What happened to my brother?"

"I grew wise to the world," he said, stepping away from his companion and drawing close to his sister, enough that he could not tilt his head to look down at her, but instead looked down upon her. Athos came to stand next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his side with a stern look. Roderic smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Now, Porthos, why were you looking for me?" asked Aramis suddenly, sensing the hair on back of his beginning to bristle with the tension. Distracted from his curious contemplation of the unknown woman and being, as of yet, unable to place her, Porthos looked at his compatriot with a victorious air.

"La Buissonière was able to give me a clue to how to find D'Artagnan. He was on duty when the Duke arrived and saw two people steal horses and leave the city, both small and lean."

"Two people, did you say? Who could he have left with?" Porthos shrugged. Aramis frowned and looked to Athos, who was still occupied in inserting himself between the siblings.

"Roderic, how would you like to help us look for your comrade? Your company is leaving soon, are they not?" asked Porthos, clapping Roderic on the back and winding him.

"No, thank you," he choked. "Come, Lisa, I will walk you back." He gave his arm to the little blonde, who dipped her head to them before she was pulled off. Porthos' eyes widened as his memory finally came back to him.

"Give my greetings to Madame Mariette for me, my dear!" he called with a wave. Roderic looked back over his shoulder, but it was hard to tell what his expression was because of his hat pulled down over his brow. Aramis shook his head.

"Porthos, that was unnecessary. There was no need to embarrass him."

"How do you know her, Monsieur Porthos?" Orianne asked.

"Porthos--" Athos began in his best warning voice.

“Why don't we just go find out just how lucky you were with your information, my good Porthos? I'm sure that Athos wouldn't mind escorting our young friend here safely back to the Palais Cardinal.” Aramis smiled at the older musketeer pointedly, and the latter muttered some assent, still watching after where Roderic and his companion had disappeared down the road. The two of them departed shortly after, Aramis expounding his theories on Porthos' deaf ears, leaving Athos and Orianne alone in semi-awkward silence with his arm still wound about her shoulders. Orianne chose to break their shared muteness first.

"Who is Madame Mariette?" Athos had almost known this question would come, but that still did not stop him from wanting to hide the truth of her brother's questionable choice in women, especially those that other men had certainly frequented before him, yet he did not. He had already caused enough damage by lying.

"She is the patroness of the filles de Magdelène," he said with slight hesitation. There was the expected horrified gasp of a devoted Catholic from Orianne and Athos sighed. She may have not known how to read before, but she knew who Marie Magdalène was and the implications.

"How does Monsieur Porthos know her?" she asked.

"Well, he visits her establishment," he said as he led towards the palace, her arm now wound in his. "And prefers her company most of all."

"My brother is courting a prostitute," she muttered, crossing herself more than once. "Lord, have mercy on him, he who is lost among the many who will sin." Athos looked away with a frown and stopped suddenly at the bottom of the steps, forcing Orianne to stop as well and look at him curiously.

"Come with me," he said, pulling her quickly away from the front doors, out the gates, and a little further down the road into a garden. He settled her silently on a bench and began to pace in front of her, feeling her eyes watching his every move in that unsettlingly trusting gaze.

"I'm sorry," she said, causing him to stop. He sat down next to her, searching her face for an explanation. It was he who should be apologizing!

"Monsieur Aramis told me that you never do something without reason, and I should have let you explain those reasons even if I was really angry. It is not right to harm people." He took her hands in his own and brought them to his lips to kiss.

"You had every right to be angry with what I did," he said with a bitter chuckle. "And I do not think you know your own strength. I can still feel the sting." She blushed and they fell silent again, contemplating the trees, the stillness of the grass, the clouds barely moving in the sky. It was one of those rare warm days in fall. He still held her hands, tracing her gloved knuckles with his thumbs.

"If you had asked me before why I had done what I had, I would not have been able to answer you," he began slowly. "I did not understand why myself." He paused, unsure, their breathing the only thing between them, before he found his train of thought and continued. "At first, I was fulfilling a gentleman's promise. Your brother asked me to keep watch over you and that was what I did. You wanted to read, so I began to teach you." He released her and stood again, pacing once more with his hands clasped together behind his back. She said nothing.

"I saw the bruises you tried to hide and could do nothing to stop them from reappearing. Then you were suddenly engaged to wed and you were happier than I had ever seen you, but I stopped it from happening." He stopped, his hands now hanging at his sides, one resting on the sword pommel and tracing the steel. He did not look at her as he asked: "Do you know what I told that young man's father when he came to introduce his son to you?" Her silence was the affirmation of her ignorance.

"I told them that you were engaged to me." He could feel her wide gaze upon him, surprised yet curious, like it had been when he was instructing her on the alphabet. He turned to her, dropped on his knees before her, feeling her hands shaking under his own, or perhaps it was his that were shaking.

"My heart knew before I did that the lie I told was the reality I wanted. I could not bear the thought of you being with another. Orianne, please, will you marry me?"

With tears in her eyes, she kissed him, and accepted.  

 

***

Hiding in the shadows of a great stone archway, D'Artagnan was struck by the sense of déjà vu, having only been here previously a short few months prior when seeking the Queen's stolen diamonds with his friends. Now he was here, in England, in London, before its great Tower whose repairs were almost complete, with the original thief herself and one of his enemies. They were waiting for a patrol to pass, which was taking much longer than it should, but there were not many soldiers to be seen given that the majority were right now occupied in France with the war machines and the naval fleet. He took a deep breath; let it out in a long sigh, counting his blessings at finally being freed from his imprisonment in a gown, and Milady glared at him impatiently. He smiled; too contented to be offended in his freedom and the knowledge that the costume that he caused him such trouble was slowly turning to ash somewhere between here and Dover. She too had changed her attire, sporting now a blue dress that they had purchased upon arrival in London. Jussac smirked at him and D'Artagnan ignored him.

"Is anyone coming yet?" the young man whispered. Jussac rolled his eyes.

"Would you and I still be standing here if that was the case?"

"We should have left you back on the ship tied to the damn mast," said D'Artagnan coldly. Milady scowled at them.

"If you keep fighting like this, I will make you kiss and make up." D'Artagnan looked like he had swallowed a frog and shut his mouth post haste. Jussac's smirk widened; he didn't seem to mind the idea very much. Milady rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Now, be quiet and get ready. I think I see a patrol coming from up the road." Indeed, she was right. Two men in the deep crimson uniforms approached. Jussac quickly crept over to the other shadowed corner of the archway and picked up a stone about the size of his fist. D'Artagnan had his dagger out and was partially crouched like a cat preparing to pounce. The soldiers aligned with their hiding places and Milady stepped out into their view with a demure smile.

"Sirs, could you help me with something?" she asked, extending her hands to them. Jussac and D'Artagnan struck them simultaneously on the back of their heads as they drew away and let them crumple to the ground before dragging them away to a secluded corner and stripping them of their uniforms. Milady wanted them to change there, but D'Artagnan flat out refused to disrobe and dress himself within sight of Jussac so they had to take turns dressing in the dirty alley.

"What are we going to do with these?" demanded Jussac, lifting his arm slighting to indicate the clothes draped over it.

"Do I have to decide everything for you?" she scoffed. This was much easier the first time with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, thought D'Artagnan bitterly, and these uniforms still smell odd. Is it possible to smell English?

"D'Artagnan! Are you paying attention?" The young Gascon blinked at Milady's hot and angry face blankly as Jussac stifled a laugh. "You two are going to escort me into the Tower of London so that I can see the King. Surely someone as slow as you can understand that!" D'Artagnan grumbled as he pulled the puffed hat down further on his head and took his place behind her on her right, Jussac on her left, and they followed at a swift pace.

"Remember: try to get away with saying nothing at all. If you have to speak, say as little as possible. Your accents will give us all away and I prefer not to become a permanent resident of the tower." The two soldiers shared a tired expression before they caught on to their joint camaraderie and looked away again. It was eerily quiet; the little clips of Milady's shoes and the heavy clops of their boots their only accompaniment as they entered the tower courtyard. Milady strode forth confidently, having been here many times before, while D'Artagnan, much more curious on his second visit, and Jussac, just as much so since it was his first, detailed the place for themselves out of the corners of their eyes. The yard was wide and square, guarded by thick, garrotted walls with buildings built out of them. The centre was dominated by a tall medieval castle-like structure surrounded by sweeping lawn. Wooden scaffoldings stood to one side, the last remnants of the repairs done to the tower, which now looked as imposing and majestic as before.

Nary a soul spared them a glance as they progressed, if perhaps to Milady, because of her beauty. Two soldiers stood by a door and with a charming smile, the former spy approached them. “A pleasant day to you, gentlemen. I have a small favour I need to ask the both of you.” As she spoke, she reached up and gently stroked the underside of the left guard's chin, to his surprise.

“What can we be doing for you, M'lady?” he inquired, moistening suddenly dry lips at the ardent gaze she unleashed on him. “It is not much, really, a mere trifle,” she pouted prettily as she all but wrapped herself around the other soldier. D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and Jussac stifled a smirk behind the countenance of a bored soldier. “I have a small missive, you see... A letter for the King of France. And you gentlemen would be dreadfully kind to allow me to pass to deliver it to him.” The right soldier swallowed the large lump that had formed in his throat, Milady's scent blinding him to all else.

“As much as we would love to help you, I am afraid the King of France is no longer here,” he said, becoming quickly disappointed as Milady pulled away with an expression that bordered on horrified.

“But if he is not here then I cannot give him the letter, and it is imperative that I do so. Has His Majesty King James had him moved to another prison?”

“No, no, of course not, M'lady,” said the first guard hurriedly. “King James, God rest his soul, had nothing to do with the matter.”

Milady became curious and pressed further, giving what could have been a genuine interpretation of grief. Jussac and D'Artagnan shared another look of impatient consternation.

"Oh, but what happened to His Majesty the King? Is he well?”

“He has passed, M'lady, not even a month ago. His Majesty the King Charles had the King of France moved to Whitehall at his wife's demand,” said the second man. With a warm smile, Milady reached forward and pressed the hands of each guard firmly.

“Ah gentleman, how you put my heart at ease! I apply immediately to Whitehall in search of the King. Oh, if only I could reward you with something other than my gratitude for all you have told me.” They were quick to reassure her that her gratitude was sufficient reward for them, quite proud of themselves in being so helpful to such a lady. They bid her good day, despite her refusal to allow them to escort her back to the gates, and stared after her as D'Artagnan and Jussac played their roles of stoic Englishman admirably, leading her out without trouble.

“Now what the Devil is Whitehall and how do we get there?” demanded D'Artagnan. “I want out of this blasted uniform and back into my own clothes.”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” asked Jussac pointedly. “It does such justice to your figure.”

“That does it!” D'Artagnan ripped off his puffy red hat, threw it to the ground, and, snarling, was about to throw himself at Jussac with the full intent of tearing his moustache from his face, as well as anything else he could manage, when Milady stepped between them, pushing him back with a hand against his chest.

“No, you foolish, idiot boy! You must stay in uniform! Do you honestly think that they are going to let two Frenchmen just walk into Whitehall?” Jussac stood back with arms crossed and a smirk as wide as the English Channel. Teeth still bared in a snarl, the impetuous youth picked his crumpled, smeared hat and squashed it back on top of his head silently.

“And to answer your question from before you lost your head, Whitehall is the King's residence, which means this has gotten a lot more difficult than I originally imagined it would be.”

“Are you afraid?” said D'Artagnan with a sneer. “Is it too much for the Cardinal's favourite creature?” Milady did not favour him with either a response or even a contemptuous glance. She turned away and walked down the road, forcing the two men to follow or be left behind.

“So we are going to walk to Whitehall?” asked Jussac sceptically. “Is that not suspicious considering you, Milady?”

“If you think this is too conspicuous then find us a carriage,” she spat at him. D'Artagnan looked around thoughtfully for a moment or two before he settled on a wagon almost empty of bird cages, the chickens packed together in twos and sometimes threes and clucking up a riot. He began to approach the merchant when Milady grabbed his shoulder and stopped him.

“Remember, you do not speak English. Let me handle this.” She drew a pouch from a pocket in her skirt and drew near the man, putting on a desperate face. She feigned breaking into tears and offered him some gold, which he was happy to take. She mimed wiping her eyes and waved over her escort to help her climb in the back of the wagon. D'Artagnan clambered up behind the horse, taking the reins in hand and giving them a quick snap to set the animal in motion. Jussac gave a angry shout and sped up to grab the side of the wagon and pull himself aboard with Milady, glaring at the back of D'Artagnan's head. Milady directed him to follow along the Thames river. D'Artagnan often stood up in order to see further down the road as to why it was often congested, and typically it was because of the masses that went about their business in the streets. He would sit back down with an impatient huff as the horse took a few more steps forward. Around them, coming from all over the city, bells chimed the hour and as they rounded the river bend, a tall structure rose up near to what could only be the Palace of Whitehall. There seemed to be scaffoldings here and there around the palace and workers visible and busy.

The trio came to a stop upon seeing the palace, Milady to think about the next course of their actions, and the men, simply to stare in awe at the gigantic structure. D'Artagnan had vaguely heard here and there that Whitehall was the largest castle in all of Europe, but there was a significant difference between hearing about it offhand and actually seeing it with his own eyes. He whistled under his breath, admiring, whereas Jussac scowled.

“How are we supposed to find the King in all of this?” Milady smirked and patted his cheek like she would a petulant child. "Just look pretty and let the experts do what needs be done. You can at least do that, can't you?" He shoved her hand away with a glare and stomped ahead. D'Artagnan and Milady exchanged an amused glance, then the gascon remembered the reason he was there and he looked away with a scowl. There was no way he was going to be familiar with her! Milady's expression remained amused as she followed the path Jussac had taken, D'Artagnan trailing behind. It was odd how easy it was to enter the royal residence in London.

D'Artagnan looked around, on his guard, expecting to be intercepted at any time, despite his and Jussac's disguises. He pushed a strand of hair that had strayed from behind his ear away from his eyes and quietly scuffed at the floor with the tip of his boot. Milady grabbed his forearm and stared pointedly at him. “Calm down, boy, and act natural.” She turned around in time to see an English soldier turning a corner, and she gave him a bright smile.

“Hello, it's really quiet here today, isn't it?” The soldier looked at her for a moment as if perhaps confused that she was addressing him then smiled in return.

“Well, it's not so surprising, my lady, as the King and much of his Court are off at Windsor for a hunt and will return until the end of the week.”

“Ah, is that so? 'Tis a pity that I have missed His Majesty.” She frowned slightly and seemed to lean towards the guard with an air of curiousness. “How is it that you are not with him as well? Surely the King has need of such loyal men to protect his person..”

“Of course he does,” said the guard, puffing up his chest pridefully. “But some of us had to remain to guard the King of France.” D'Artagnan had to look down at his boots to keep from rolling his eyes.

“Ah, of course,” said Milady. “It must be such a tiring duty.”

“Indeed it is. I have only just been relieved myself and am off to enjoy the sunshine. I suggest, my lady, that you too take advantage of the brisk air. One never knows when it will come again in England!”

“You are right, my good sir. We have far too few nice days and it would be a waste to squander it. I believe I shall follow your advice and take some air after I have retrieved what I came for. Good day, sir.”

“A pleasant one to you as well, my lady.” The soldier bowed to her and was quick to leave, so eager was he to be away from duty. Milady smirked at Jussac victoriously.

“And that, Monsieur Jussac, is how the elite accomplish anything.” Before the Cardinal's man could offer a retort, D'Artagnan had all but bolted down the corridor from which the English soldier had come, his energy renewed and his eyes bright.

“If that idiot Englishman came from this way and was just relieved then this must be the right way to go,” he said, pausing impatiently as the other two caught up to him and gripped his arms to stop him continuing his one-way track.

“If you throw yourself around like this, you will ruin everything,” snapped Jussac. “We have come this far and you cannot be so thick as to not see the risk now!” Milady shushed them hurriedly.

“Quiet, the both of you! I can hear others nearby,” she whispered. The guards in the hall beyond were conversing quietly at their posts whilst the trio were almost crouched back to back against a wall and around the corner from them.

“What are they saying?” D'Artagnan asked curiously. Milady glared at him with a finger pressed against her lips in a sign to shush him and Jussac rolled his eyes.

“What does it matter what they are saying?” taunted Jussac. “We don't need to understand them. Let's just kill them and be done with it.” Milady flicked Jussac on the ear and gave him the same glare she had given D'Artagnan, to which the Gascon smirked and the guard growled.

“You are a fool,” hissed Milady. “Killing them outright will only attract attention. What if one of them sounds the alarm? And what would you propose we do about the blood?”

“Besides, we only need to knock them out,” remarked D'Artagnan.

“Very well! We will only incapacitate them,” acquiesced Jussac before Milady waved violently at them to be silent once more. They remained motionless for several moments more, mashed together most conspicuously in this corridor that it was only by sheer Providence that none saw the spectacle they made.

“Wait here, boys,” she whispered finally. “I will go first and when I have them distracted, you will make your move.” She rounded the corner so quickly that D'Artagnan almost fell forward – he had been leaning against her – and Jussac grabbed his shoulder to keep him from toppling to the ground. Their ears were perked to catch the slightest sounds: the swish of Milady's dress across the smooth floor; the mutterings of the guards now silenced as they caught sight of her; the resumed speaking as she talked with them for a few moments. D'Artagnan shuffled impatiently as the speaking continued until Milady seemed to give some sort of gasp and the guards sounded panicked. Jussac and D'Artagnan rounded the corner to come upon Milady fallen over in a false faint in the arms of one of the men and the other looking quite flustered. They ran towards the threesome and, quickly drawing daggers, they struck the two Englishmen on the back of their heads. Milady squeaked as the guard fell unconscious atop her and Jussac glanced about to ensure that none had heard or saw their actions.

“Help me up then drag them inside the room,” Milady ordered, reaching for a yet to be offered hand. Neither Jussac nor D'Artagnan extended theirs, simply grabbing either the arms or the legs of one guard and dragging them across the floor. Milady gave an affronted huff whilst spouting “And you are supposed to be gentlemen!” as she scooped up the fallen hats, so as to leave no trace of their presence, then opened the door to what they hoped was the chambers of the King of France. After all, it would do them no good if they were to appear in someone's room unannounced and dragging the limp bodies of two guards.

“What are you doing? Leave me at once, you fiends! Is it not enough to torment me with your presence outside my door even though I am allowed to roam the castle freely? Be gone.” D'Artagnan propped his burden against the wall, approached the obfuscated monarch, and swept off his hat into a low bow.

Good Lord, D'Artagnan, is that really you? I should never thought I would ever again see such a friendly face!” Louis sounded almost ecstatic enough to embrace him, but D'Artagnan was glad that he held back from the desire.

“Your Majesty, we are here to bring you back to Paris,” said D'Artagnan in his most cordial tone as he stood from his bow and gestured towards to Jussac and Milady, the former having just placed his guard alongside D'Artagnan's and the latter having just shut the doors into the chamber.

“Are you here to make an exchange for my freedom then?” asked the King.

“Not in the most honest way, Sire. In fact, it will be done in a rather more clandestine fashion,” said Jussac after standing from his own bow. Louis regarded him with a suspicious gaze.

“I believe you are perhaps one of the Cardinal's men, are you not? You seem distantly familiar to me.”

“I am, Sire. I was posted in Calais to be on guard should the Duke of Buckingham's fleet return or should more arrive from England to help him.” Louis nodded and then turned to Milady, who had lowered herself into a curtsey. His expression became even more distrustful.

“And you, Madame, are the emissary from England, if I recall correctly from our meeting some months ago,” he stated flatly.

“That is correct, Your Majesty,” said Milady gently. Louis watched her hold her pose for an inordinate amount of time until he finally allowed to release from it and then said:

“Green? Really?” Milady blinked confusedly for a moment or two before having the graciousness to look at least faintly chagrined. Louis shook his head and sighed.

“Not that it matters much now, I'm afraid. You say you have a plan.” He took the three of them in with intense scrutiny. “Please, I ask you to share it with me, for I could not yet stand another day on this blasted island nightmare.”

 

***

“Here you are Milord. I remembered you said you did not like the mutton yesterday and had venison prepared for you instead.” Buckingham regarded the young woman with a warm smile as she entered and set down the tray laden with his evening meal. She was a fresh-faced girl, simple and fair and seemingly free of any suspicion against him. He laid compliments at her feet, which she had ignored at first as she had been ordered, but he had quickly worn her down with his flattery.

“My thanks to you Mademoiselle. Are you sure you are not a grand lady in disguise? For it is an honour to be served by one as beautiful as yourself.” He reached for her hand and she let him take it to gently kiss. He looked up at her with that smile, the one he reserved for his conquests, and he watched as her blush crept into her cheeks and made her neck rosy with its warmth.

“Milord is too kind,” she said softly, slowly taking her hand away.

“Might I know the name of my dear angel?” he asked.

“My name is Marie,” she replied. He gave an astonished gasp and grasped her hand once more most fervently.

“So you are not just an angel, my dear, but a saint! How blessed I am!” She giggled and smiled so warmly that her eyes shone with her pleasure.

“Milord, I was told you are Protestant-” He scoffed, cutting her off.

“Certainly not, dear Marie, most absolutely not. I am as much a Catholic as any loyal to the mother Church,” he ardently reassured before he gave a sigh and seemed to become the most melancholy man she had ever seen. She pressed his hand between her own, frightened by the sadness that was crossing his face.

“Oh Milord, have I displeased you?”

"Mademoiselle, you are too good and kind to be serving a criminal such as myself. I am not even allowed to attend Mass. If only I could walk in the gardens, take in the air, or even simply open my windows and admire them with you by my side, I would be the happiest of men.” Here he sighed again, a most longing and pitying sound as ever could be made, and continued. “As it is, I have no friends in the place and suffer dreadfully for it.”

“Oh no, Milord, you do have friends, I assure you. Let me prove it to you, let me be your friend,” Marie insisted, glancing at the door almost fearfully, wary of being heard speaking with such devotion. As he had already made clear, he was considered a criminal, but no such man could ever be so kind to someone as poor as her, could they?

“I will see what I can do about getting your windows opened, Milord. I promise I will try.”

“Mademoiselle, you restore me to life! If you could give me this, it would make my imprisonment all the more tolerable.” A bell chimed in the distance and Marie gasped.

“Oh no! I was to return to the kitchens right after bringing your food!”

“Then you had best hurry. I would hate to cause you such grief.” He kissed her hand once more, touching every knuckle, going one way and then the opposite. When she had gone and the door was shut, Buckingham wiped his lips carefully with his handkerchief before he settled down to eat, smirking to himself all the while and occasionally chuckling with prideful glee. Only a short time more and he would be freed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Jeu de paume was the ancestor of modern-day tennis.


	32. Desires Fulfilled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MILD SEXUAL CONTENT
> 
> Having a co-author can be a problem, especially when they insist on writing a certain part and then take 6 months to arrive at nothing. 
> 
> I begin my Master's degree today. I intend to issue a challenge to my co-author to motivate him and somehow get his ADHD to focus so that I may take a backseat for a while. 
> 
> My apologies for the intolerable wait.

It was midday, the autumn air crisp and cool. There was a heaviness promised later rain. Standing before the set of double doors with a musketeer on either side bearing halberds, Athos frowned in bewilderment. He could hear faint giggles from the prisoner's room beyond. _This is unbelievable_ , he mused grimly, _and he has been here less than a fortnight. He wastes no time._ He exchanged a glance with the two men stationed at either side.

            "How long has the girl been in there with him?"

            "A little more than a half hour, Monsieur," replied one of them, rubbing his neck embarrassingly. "We had not been given any orders not to let her in, and since the Duke has been on his best behaviour-" Athos' eyes narrowed into slits and the soldier became silent.

            "You would be unwise to underestimate this man. He is a blackguard of few scruples and should be allowed as little contact with the servants as humanly possible. Is that understood?" A quiet moan interrupted the guard's attempt to respond and, without even a knock, Athos pushed the doors open, striding inside. The sight that greeted him only made him even more irate. Buckingham was sitting by his small table, which was laden with the meal tray. He had yet to touch its contents. Instead, he had the servant girl sitting on his lap facing him, her skirts bunched about her waist and her corset and shirt lying open and offering to his avid gaze an ample view of her bosom. He held her close by the waist with one hand and fondled her with the other. Her head was leaning back, her eyes closed and she appeared completely lost to the sensations. Neither had noticed Athos' entrance. Annoyed, he cleared his throat and the scene dissolved into chaos as the servant squeaked, horror struck, and scrambled to get off Buckingham while trying to pull her chemise and corset back into place.

            Athos looked away pointedly with an expression of disgust, noting that he could feel an insistent chill of a breeze despite the pulled drapes. He had only been distracted from his duties as a jailor for two days, having been given the task to train the Duke d'Orléans men for airship combat along with Porthos and Aramis. Now that the first wave of soldiers had departed in the morning after a seemingly never-ending parade, Athos had seen fit to check on the state of his prisoner. Buckingham came out of his shocked stupor and helped the young woman up. She straightened her skirts and fled from the room, her cheeks flaming and her eyes down to avoid Athos' withering stare as she passed him.

            "Puritan," muttered the Duke bitterly.

            "I beg your pardon?" Buckingham glanced at the musketeer's quirked brow and waved an offhand gesture at him, feigning boredom.

            "Must you bore me even further with your ignominious presence?"

            "I am your jailor, if you recall. I am therefore responsible for your well-being," scoffed Athos and gestured towards the meal the servant had left behind. "Unfortunately for you this only means ensuring you are sufficiently fed and comfortable, and does not include allowing you to have your way with the servants."

            "Go to hell, Athos! I do not recall you being this concerned about your little mouse when I had her with me." Athos bit his tongue briefly. It was not worth the effort to argue with the man as he threw a temper tantrum because he had been caught in such an embarrassing state.

            "If the matter rested solely with me, you would presently be rotting away in a dungeon living on dry bread and stale water. Here, you have regular meals, sunlight, and a fine bed on which to lie. I would wager that the King at present does not enjoy such refinements at the hands of your uncultured ruffians." Buckingham picked an apple from a small tray of fruit and bit into it with relish, unfazed by the glare he was receiving.

            "For another thing, why are the windows open?” Athos asked, approaching the drapes. “If you were going to attempt an escape through the window, you would only succeed in breaking your legs and would be captured again regardless. There are the Royal guard, the Cardinal's own men, and the musketeers that patrol regularly along this spot so you would have had such little chance of success." Athos could feel Buckingham's eyes boring into his back with all the insistence of daggers and he smirked.

            "Get out, Athos. Get out now," ordered Buckingham. “By God, am I considered so inhuman that I cannot want for fresh air?”

            Athos did not move to leave, simply quirking a brow, walking over to one of the pulled drapes, and shoving it aside to reveal a torn bed sheet, tied as a rope, dangling down and just ending at the top of the window to the rooms just below. The musketeer shook his head, took his dagger from its sheath on his belt, cut the knot loose from the stone rail of the small balcony, and began to pull up the rope.

            “Was it truly necessary to destroy the Cardinal's property in such a manner? Not that I fault you, mind, considering how he has double-crossed you time and time again.” Buckingham scoffed and turned away, tugging at the bottom of his doublet angrily.

            “I assume you to be as deaf as the old man you are, Athos. I told you to leave.” He pointed towards the door with a commanding dismissal that Athos pointedly ignored, taking the pile of cloth rope and beginning to coil it around his elbow as if he had been a sailor all his life.

            “I doubt you will believe me, but your broken promise of cooperation with Richelieu is not the first time he has been the cause of your difficulties. He has played you for a fool, and you have done nothing but follow along his plans like any ignorant foot soldier.” Athos tugged the loop of cord free from around his arm. He plucked a grape from Buckingham's plate, chewed it thoughtfully for a moment or two, swallowed then continued.

            “Did you never wonder why we were there in the first place or did you simply consider it as our plot for revenge and thought no further on the subject?” When Buckingham did not respond immediately with another demand for him to leave, Athos looked to see the Englishman's expression was contemplative, his eyes narrowed in suspicious thought.

            "What did Milady de Winter tell you, I wonder?" Athos asked with the vague hint of a smile. "Or did she only seduce you into agreeing with her every word? You are not the only one she has fooled, as I am sure you can well recall."

            "I told you to leave," said Buckingham, but he lacked some of his earlier conviction. Athos turned to head for the door.

            "By the way, what did she tell you her favourite colour was?" Caught off guard, Buckingham spat out the word red. Athos gave a low chuckle, his hand on the doorknob.

            "Funny enough, she told me that her favourite colour was purple." Buckingham was silent. Athos turned back with a stoic expression.

            "Now, I hope you enjoyed what little you saw of that servant because she will not be returning. I will have her replaced with someone who certainly will not fall to your particular charms. Good day." Thunder was rumbling outside when Athos shut the door behind him. He frowned at the window and, after a warning glare at the soldiers guarding the prisoner and informing them of the servant change, swiftly made his way down the hall towards the stairs.

            There was little more than a week before the troops would leave to confront the coalition at La Rochelle. He would need to have his equipment fixed before then if he wanted to have any use of it. As a musketeer, he would be required to have a proper musket, which could be easily obtained through any gunsmith, but he preferred his own tools beyond the portability of his pistols. He needed to speak with the King's armourer, whom Tréville had enlisted, with permission, to outfit their particular unit with unique weapons in order to test them for feasibility and potential future use throughout the corps. The forge and the armory were near one another, close enough to the stables to allow ease of access for the horseshoes since the man doubled as the Royal smith, yet far enough that the constant hammering did not irritate the sensibilities of the palace dwellers. The musketeer whistled tonelessly as he made his way there through the stable, rubbing the occasional horse nose as he went. Abandoning the sheet rope with the other coils he found stacked near where the tack hung; he exited through the other end of the building. Looking up, the clouds were ominously dark and heavy. He heard an occasional raindrop on his hat and ducked into the forge. The heat and an apprentice greeted him as he walked by and he smiled slightly, reminiscing about being taken by his father to have his first proper sword made.

            “Hello, Monsieur Athos! I haven’t seen you in quite a while!”

            “Good afternoon, Dulac.” A broad and sturdy man with upper arms thick as oak branches and short, shaggy hair, he turned back to his anvil next to the furnace and kept on hammering away without further ceremony. At such a crucial stage of forging the blade, a small distraction could prove fatal to the entire process. Athos found the cleanest available spot to sit on and he waited, clearly undisturbed by the rippling waves of heat emanating from the burning furnace. Half an hour of hammering later, the smith grabbed the newly made blade and dipped it quickly in a vat full of rainwater. The metal hissed loudly as it made contact with the liquid and turned from a bright red to a dark black. Athos stood as the worker tiredly set down his work and threw his pliers aside. He instructed his apprentice on maintaining the forge then turned to Athos, offering his hand to shake. With the work stopped, Athos could now hear the mass of rain falling on the roof above them.

            “I apologize for the delay, Monsieur. What can I do to serve you?”

            “My friends and I need another set of our weapons made, Dulac.”

            “Ah yes, I had heard about that.” Taking a rag tucked in a front pocket of his leather apron, the smith wiped his brow and fingers. "Only a small blaze though else it would have eaten half the city instead of half of the Pont Notre-Dame." Athos crooked a brow, but did not correct him. Two and a half houses were hardly half of the buildings built along that particular bridge.

            "The musketeers and the rest of the guard companies will be leaving within the week Dulac. I know that is likely far too short a timeframe for you--"

            "Monsieur, I thought you would be more familiar with me by now!" He gestured for Athos to follow him from the forge and into a small closet-like space used for storage of his wares and orders. On the table was a wooden chest, sealed with a padlock. Dulac took the key that hung just inside the door and unlatched it, removed it, and lifted the lid for Athos' inspection. Two twin barrels of thin, gleaming steel lay there in a bed of hay alongside with a dozen narrow strips in two piles of six.

            "I was expecting you, you see, Monsieur," said Dulac smugly. Athos examined the darts closely, picking one up to test its texture and weight. Dulac had done each of them with an almost surgical precision.

            "Impressive," he murmured. Dulac preened under the rare praise and continued with a renewed enthusiasm.

            "I will be meeting with the Monsieur Boudreau, the gunsmith, in order to finish it. The mechanics of the device are beyond my skills."

            "Excellent. As for the handles--"

            "I only need to get them to Boudreau to fit them. I will be sure to get his part of the payment to him."

            "Perfect. This will do. Have Messieurs Porthos and Aramis been around to ask for your services?"

            "They sent your servant with a list. Scared him half to death when he first saw me, I did. I was working on repairing some fop's rapier and he arrived to me hammering and swearing. Pierre there," he tipped his head towards his apprentice, "gave me their list and told me all about the fat little man running off like the Devil was chasing him, slipping in the dirt and losing his beret." Athos chuckled.

            "Yes, Planchet is not the bravest of servants. Be that as it may, since you had their requests, have you begun the work?"

            "Finished it actually, Monsieur, if you wish to look them over before I send them out. A full set of crafted daggers in varying sizes; a dozen sturdy grapple hooks; a bunch of these tiny sticks with jutting pieces on the ends; there were even pictures for me to follow for those little things."

            "I do not need to judge your work, Monsieur Dulac. We have never found your skill lacking. Send them off to my friends and they will settle their own payment. If that is all--"

            "No, it's not, Monsieur," said the smith with a strange smile. "There is one more thing which they asked for you, which I have to take Monsieur Engelhart, that foreign goldsmith in the Rue des Orfèvres, and find myself a glassmaker, which will not be cheap. Then there's the tanner too, for the rest of it, but he'll need your measures." He pulled a cloth bundle from a shelf and set it on the table to unwrap it. Within the cloth was a smooth, black mask, pentagonal in shape and bent slightly inwards along the middle to make a ridge from between the eyes down to the chin. In addition, there was a heavy metal collar ended in points on the front and back. Athos smiled and shook his head. He had not expected to have use of his diving suit until after the campaign, but with the mask already complete, it should not take the rest of the work very long to be finished as well.

            "Fine work as always, Dulac." The man beamed proudly, called for his apprentice and returned to his forge, leaving said apprentice to stretch ropes along the soldier's arms, shoulders, front, back, and legs, and mark them with charcoal where they needed cutting. The young man asked for Athos' help in jotting down the figures as he measured the ropes and then they were finished. Athos gave the apprentice a gold coin for his help and headed for the door. Looking beyond, it was a veritable curtain of water, the ground already muddied and swampy. He shuffled his cape from his covering his one shoulder to covering both and made the dash for the nearby stables, his boots sticking in the sucking mud. The horses were jittery within the building, as thunder broke overhead. Athos patted a few extended noses as he went by them, shook out his cloak to free it from some of the water and prepared to make a dash for a nearby servant's door when he stopped.

            Staring through the rainy curtain into the beginning borders of the gardens, he saw a figure moving. It was not some poor passing guard making his rounds in the torrent, of this he was sure because they were not bowed against the inclement weather, but appeared to be revelling in it. He waited, vaguely curious, as they approached his post, disappearing and reappearing like a spectre between the trees and bushes. A young woman finally revealed herself, drenched through her yellow dress, the hem of it soaked with mud, as were most likely her underskirts, shoes, and stockings. Her hair tumbled freely over her shoulders in long spirals, some of it still pinned up in now ruined curls that held on vainly. She threw her arms up in the air and Athos found himself entranced by her face as she spun and twirled, laughing under the leafy, dripping canopy. A flash of lightning brightened the sky and thunder clapped again, encouraging her to make a purposeful jump into a puddle with the boom. He admired the smooth, even line of her body as she paused shortly, leaning against a trunk, with a hand pressed above her breasts. She had no regard for the state of her appearance, only for the rain that struck her as she tipped her face up to the clouds when she came out from the cover of the trees. Athos was stunned as he recognised her through her disheveled looks, his admiration shaken by concern.

            "Heavens Orianne, what are you doing out? You will catch your death in this rain!" he called, recovering himself just as she went to continue her merry dance. She froze and turned to face him, and he found himself a little torn by the nervousness she expressed that contrasted so viciously with her laugh rosy cheeks. He left the cover of the stables and came towards her. She looked around in an almost frightened state then hid herself behind a nearby tree, peeking around it at him. He stopped, kept his distance, frowning sternly with his arms folded over his chest. Water dripped from his hat, the feather already limp and floppy. His cloak was beginning to soak through into his back and he had only been out in the rain for a short time without cover to speak about. Glancing down, he found his concern mounting as he noted her footprints in the mud, complete with indentations of her toes. She had evidently abandoned both shoes and stockings before coming out here.

            "It is only a little water," she said, which he could barely hear over yet another thunderclap. He secretly wondered at her, a woman once so terrified of her shadow yet so completely at ease in such a nasty storm.

            "Even a little water can be enough to make one sick. Come along inside now," he said, extending his arm towards the palace as if to guide her back. She did not move, taking a step back from the tree and away from him. She shook her head, her arms wrapped about herself. He crooked a brow at her, surprised at her newfound defiance until now never used against him, and came to the other side of the tree. She took more steps away, ever careful to leave more than an arms-length distance between them, a skill no doubt learned from her former home.

            "Orianne, you are surely freezing out here. Enough of this foolishness," he said sharply. "I only want you well and safe. Come with me now."

            "I will not," she protested weakly, her voice atremble. "I like the rain."

            "One can like it from within a dry place. Please, Orianne, be sensible about this. I will not beg you."

            "Then look after yourself," she said. "I know the way back. You could become sick out here too."

            "I am not leaving you to possibly hurt yourself. Your parents did enough of that already," he snapped. She flinched, her eyes round. The guilt of his lack of patience washed over him and reached to take her arm, an apology ready on his lips. She turned and ran without looking back. He growled and pursued despite being as bogged down as she was with water. He could see her ahead of him, pushing herself off trees to balance as she slipped in the mud. He was doing little better in his boots and was half-tempted to remove the likely ruined leather and abandon them. He lost sight of her as she hid between trees and spun around on a garden path trying to find the spot of pale yellow in the washed out surroundings.

            "Orianne?" he called, having the vaguest idea that perhaps he had dreamt the whole encounter simply because of the chill he felt creeping through him until she purposely threw herself out from behind a tree into his sight and took off again. He growled and gave chase, wondering how he was pulled into this and why he had not simply gone inside and left the foolish woman to catch a cold. His sodden cloak dragged him down; catching on bushes that he passed in his pursuit and starting to make his shoulders burn from the weight. She was ahead of him and slipped sideways against yet another tree. She watched him from over her shoulder until he was just about to grab her then spun around the tree and took off again, laughing.

            "You won't catch me!" she called, turning to wave before heading barefoot down another path. He chuckled, shaking his head at her antics, and chased. Their game continued for a long while, until the cold had settled into Athos so thoroughly it seemed nothing would warm him, and he finally had enough. With a burst of speed, he caught her around the waist from behind, lifting her from her feet and spinning her around, laughing along with her as he set her back down gently. He turned her to face him and held her close about the waist.

            "What was this about not being able to catch you?" he asked with a crooked brow. She smiled, reached up to hold his face with her hands, and kissed him. It was chaste and sweet and he could taste the rain on her softened lips. He held her close when they separated, stroking the back of her wet head that he held against his shoulder in their embrace. They remained this way, alone in the rainy garden, until he noticed her shivering and upon examining her hands, saw that her nails were starting to turn blue.

            "Come inside now," he insisted, holding his cloak out uselessly over her as she led them back to where she had left her shoes. She took them and her stockings from her hiding place behind a statue and held them, one pair in either hand. By the light of the candles inside, Athos thought she looked sad and frail being that she was so drenched.

            "You can hardly go back to your room like this," he said. "You need to warm up first, and whomever your dress came from will not be particularly happy seeing their property in such ruin." Orianne shifted guiltily from one foot to the other. Athos looked back and saw they had left a noticeable trail of muddy prints before he refocused on his shivering fiancée. He offered his arm for her to take and guide her to his room as quietly as possible, hoping that Buckingham's guards had been too busy with their dice to see them. Upon arrival, they noticed a fire crackling in the hearth, giving the room a cosy, orange glow and warming it substantially. They stood there in the open doorway, revelling in it for several moments, before Athos led her inside and shut the door behind them.

            "You can remove your clothes behind there," he said, pointing to a corner of the room cut off by an ornate screen. He went over to his water basin, carried it over to set it on the floor behind the screen, and then returned to retrieve the half-full pitcher of water and a cloth square he had been using to clean and dry his razor when he shaved.

            "Use this to wash your feet. You are leaving tracks everywhere," he said gently, offering her the cloth. She nodded mutely, keeping her eyes directed to the floor for a reason he could not fathom. Little did he know that her memory was forcing her to recall another moment she had been so close to him in a state of undress. Her cheeks were a bright red. He reached over and pushed her chin up, forcing her gaze to meet his. Her eyes were wide, darting hither and thither. She pulled away from him, moving quickly behind the screen without a word. Athos frowned, shook his head, and began to remove his hat, cloak, gloves, doublet and jerkin that weighed like a suit of heavy armour.

            "I will be right here if you need any help," he called, draping his first shed layer on a chair, rolling his shoulders against the see-through, sticking fabric of his shirt. She did not reply to him save for a small huff of effort as she did whatever she had to do to undress. He peeled his shirt off, shook it out so it at least looked like a shirt then removed the tie from his hair to let it hang freely. He was just laying the shirt on the table when he felt a finger tap against his shoulder. Orianne stood there, shuffling from one foot to the other nervously.

            "I can't reach the strings," she mumbled from behind her hair spirals, her last few curls having finally given up and fallen out. She turned her back to him, pulling her hair over one shoulder. He freed the laces on the back of the dress from their buttons and she held the dress up against her front although the back sagged, revealing her corset and her chemise sticking every part of her. The ribbons were pulled tight, cinching her waist firmly beneath the whalebone and fabric, narrowing it even more than it already was from years of hunger. Those ties were difficult to free from the loops by oneself without the help of a servant or a lover. Athos bit back a groan at the latter idea, taking a deep breath through his nose then beginning to loosen them, stopping her from leaving. He tugged them through the loops one at a time and he paused as she gasped in relief, her lungs finally free to expand. Athos, being in the position he was, found his eyes tracing what was before him: a long line of pale skin and the dimple at the base of her spine where the overdress fell open, visible through her dampened chemise, the beginning swell of her bottom.

            "Is something wrong?" she asked, glancing back at him over her shoulder. Athos swallowed, eyes closed, took a step towards her to hold her by her shoulders, and leaned in to kiss the crook of her neck between it and the rest of her. He breathed on the damp spot, moved to kiss another place along her shoulder, felt her shiver under his touch.

            "Athos," she whispered. He stopped and took a step back.

            "Off you go," he said with a slight gruffness. "Go and remove those wet things. I will find you something else to wear." She turned to face him and regarded him, reaching out a hand and lightly touching the wrapped around bandages that still covered the lashes on his back, her other hand holding up her dress. He pressed her hand against his chest and held it there for a moment or two before releasing her. She returned behind the screen. Athos stripped off his muddy boots and wet breeches, unwound the cold bandages, changed into dry garments and dug out his last shirt from his clothes. He brought the shirt over to the screen and hung it over a panel.

            "You can use this for a chemise until yours dries. Hand me whatever you have taken off." He was given the wrinkled, mud-stained yellow dress, the damp corset that reminding him of an opened shell, and a mountain of multiple skirts, all of which were also hemmed in the brown substance. He did his best to spread the articles out with the chairs looking as rather rectangular mannequins then turned to the fire to add another log and to stoke the flames higher. The warmth washed over him, but he was significantly warmer already, his blood purring under his skin. He leaned his forehead against the marble mantle, playing with the poker's handle under his fingers. He did not hear her footsteps and realise her presence until a pair of arms wrapped about his waist and Orianne pressed herself against his back in an embrace. He stiffened, gripping the poker tightly, feeling how she molded against him and ignored the dampness of her hair that was trying to wet his shirt anew. He forced his breathing to even, trying to find anything else to focus on besides the innocent woman, but the fire only reminded him of her warm body, the rain of the taste of her soft skin, the feel of his own clothes of how little she was wearing. She nuzzled her forehead against his spine and he heard her yawn.

            "Would you like to lie down?" The words were out of his mouth before he could reconsider the implications.

            "If you will come with me," she replied, releasing him. "We can get warmer quicker that way."

            "Yes, well," he coughed, settling the poker back against the fireplace. "I am not as cold as you certainly are." She tugged on his arm, pulling him towards the bed to which he went reluctantly. His thoughts whirled in his brain and he clenched his fists to keep from acting on them. Orianne climbed onto the bed and sat on her knees facing him, watching him like a curious animal. She was a bit bony, but had gained a little softness since he first knew her with the increased quality of her food. His shirt only fell midway down her thighs and her sitting only pulled it tighter to her body. He reached out and caressed her cheek then leaned in to kiss her, lifting and resting one knee on the bed. His hands slid down her shoulders, ribs, and waist, stopping at her hips as his kisses became insistent. He gripped the fabric under his fingers, willing himself to stay there and move no farther except that when he moved to her neck to kiss, she gave soft, pleased sounds that only encouraged the building heat. Lavishing her pulse point even made her give a quiet moan, and he lost his sense of inhibition. As he climbed onto the bed, he guided her into lying down and continued to taste what skin was available to him.

            She was unsure, her hands would sometimes touch him then would flit away until she finally decide to keep her arms tucked under his and her hands on his shoulder blades where her slight nails would unconsciously dig into his skin whenever he caused her pleasure. She was fascinated with tracing his scars, new and old, when he left her alone long enough to do so, and as he slipped under her borrowed shirt and met her downy skin with his digits, he was surprised to find little scars on her back.

            "What are these marks?" he asked lowly, brushing one with a finger.

            "Father was very giving with his belt," she replied with a weak smile. "We almost match, Athos." He shook his head with a sense of disgust.

            "They did not deserve you and there are times where I wonder if I do either." Orianne brushed the hair back from his face, tracing his bristled features with long, somewhat thick fingers.

            "Maybe if a person loves you, it makes you worthy," she remarked, "and I love you so then you are worthy."

            "And I--" he paused, the words stuck in his throat despite the feeling that his heart might burst if he did not say them. "I love you also." He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks and nose one at a time, slowly. With a hand on her bare hip, he looked her into the eyes and asked:

            "Do you trust me?"

            "With my life," she said with conviction. He nodded slowly, seeing the truth in her gaze, and proceeded to help her remove the shirt.

***

            "This must be the most exciting thing I have ever done," exclaimed Louis. "But why, oh why, do the English have to have such terrible taste in fabric and colour?" Hearing this, D'Artagnan, Jussac, and Milady rolled their eyes behind their closed lids. It had taken shockingly little time and effort to convince the King to don an English guard's uniform, but getting him to play a subservient and namely quiet role was another thing entirely despite his willingness. The young man had an opinion on everything, particularly clothing, and why should he not considering his station? Yet this perpetual whispered and sometimes loudly confrontational chatter put all of them at an extremely heightened risk. He took it all as some great game, dressing up like someone so far below him, and forgot to think of the consequences should he caught not playing to the full part.

            "This will not work," growled Jussac lowly to Milady. "He needs to stop talking or he will give us all away the moment we get outside the room, let alone the palace."

            It was true. They had not even left the room yet. They had bound and gagged the guards and then shoved them in the wardrobe after stripping one of them of his wine red uniform. The three rescuers had been forced to hide themselves behind the drapes, standing on stools or on the upturned and mercifully empty chamber pot so their feet would not show, when the King's meal had arrived and he refused to leave without eating first. They ended up staying the night, sprawled over chairs and the chaise lounge in exhaustion after removing the bodies from the wardrobe, knocking them out again, and holding them up with them as they hid so the King could be changed for bed by his servant. Now the rain spattered the windows and drenched the streets. No one would be outside and those that were would be too busy trying to reach their own destinations to notice anyone around them. There would not be a better chance to make their flight.

            "Come now, why are we not leaving?" demanded Louis suddenly, breaking from his train of complaints about the coarse fabric.

            "Your Majesty, we must ask that you be as quiet as possible," said D'Artagnan hesitantly. "Otherwise anyone who should hear you would recognise you to be greater than a lowly soldier, your escape would be ruined, and we would be killed without mercy." Louis' expression became serious, a rather uncommon turn for him, and he nodded.

            "You are right, D'Artagnan. Anyone would realise that I am a King so I shall be as silent as my father's tomb. Lead me to my freedom, you three, and upon arrival in Paris, you will be greatly rewarded for this heroism." He tucked his red hair up under the crushed velvet hat and went to walk out the door as Milady opened it when Jussac threw out an arm to stop him.

            "Your Majesty," whispered Milady, "think of us as your vanguard. Stay in the middle of our group where we can best protect you." Louis nodded and let Milady leave first, having great difficulty keeping from smiling as he followed with D'Artagnan and Jussac just behind and on either side of him. The corridor was empty, the majority of the court and the remaining soldiers still out with King Charles, Queen Henriette, and their retinue on their hunt.

            "What do we do if we come across Felton?" asked Louis is a hurried whisper that seemed to echo over their footsteps.

            "Who is this Felton?" asked Jussac out the corner of his mouth. Milady glanced back.

            "Felton is a lieutenant who serves under my brother-in-law," she muttered. "A greater Puritan I have never met." D'Artagnan found himself surprised to know that this woman had once been married or was still when Louis interjected:

            "I should say so! He is insufferably cold." D'Artagnan shushed him before the young Gascon could check his actions and Louis stared at him in such surprise that D'Artagnan had to pause and make quick whispered apologies for the rudeness.

            "Please, Sire, you must be very, very quiet," said Milady, "otherwise this game will never work." Louis raised a finger to his lips to signal his agreed silence and the troupe continued.

            "You there, stop!" called a man from the other end of the corridor and they froze halfway to the exit. Jussac turned to look over his shoulder to see a stoic-faced young man dressed plainly in a black, well-fitted suit and heading towards them with furrowed brows.

            "Do we run?" said Louis. D'Artagnan shook his head slightly. Milady pushed through the men, blocking the King from view as she met their interrupter.

            "Is there a reason for your halting me, Mr. Felton?" she asked imperiously, lifting her chin and looking down her nose at the man. He bowed stiffly to her before he spoke.

            "My apologies for the offense Milady de Winter, but none are allowed in the corridor."

            "Really? I was unaware. I only just returned to England a few days prior and had not had time to acquaint myself with the news of the Court." Felton eyed her suspiciously for a moment or two.

            "From whence do you return, Milady? Milord Winter told me that you had last been in France and he would not expect your return for quite some time."

            "Mr. Felton, you have no right to question me as to my comings and goings," she replied angrily. "Be on your way and I will be on mine. You are keeping me in a forbidden corridor after all and should His Majesty see me, oh the trouble you will have!" Felton nodded slowly, and the three men turned as she did and began to follow her once more. They heard him knock on the door to the King's prison and wait for entrance. They kept their pace even, although the urge to speed up was almost overwhelming. Felton knocked again and when he received no answer, he entered and just as quickly came back out and gave chase.

            "Stop them! They have the King of France!" he yelled.

            "Follow me!" said Milady and they broke into a run as she hitched up her skirts and Jussac grabbed her train. D'Artagnan flinched and almost tackled Louis as a shot rang out and struck a marble statue on his left as they rounded a corner. Jussac punched an oncoming guard, knocking him to floor and Louis knocked over a suit of armour onto another. Felton called for more help behind them as they tumbled into narrower and narrower halls and the heat seemed to double.

            "Milady, where are we going?" demanded Louis in a gasp. They burst into the kitchens to screaming servants. The cook looked stunned as this noble woman with three guards came pelting into the room, and it took at least a minute before they were able to get an answer out of him about an exit from here. He pointed towards the servants' door and only when Felton came in after they had made into the alley did he realise his mistake in helping them. A dozen English soldiers poured into the alleyway along with the curious kitchen staff, looking left and right at the empty space then to Felton for further instruction when they saw no one but themselves. He sent half of the soldiers to the left, ordered the kitchen staff back inside then took the remaining men and headed right.

            In a house across from this servants' door, the unlikely quartet held their breath and listened to the retreating footsteps of their pursuers. Jussac held a woman in his arms, his hand clapped over her mouth to keep her from screaming. They waited a while longer after all had gone quiet before finally breathing.

            "How likely is it that we will not be able to get to the port before they bar us from crossing?" asked D'Artagnan to Milady, full of sarcasm. She huffed at him.

            "We will get back across. Anyone can be bought, my dear little Gascon." She waved her hand in front of his face, showing several rings whose stones most certainly had to be real for her to be wearing them. She turned to Jussac with a sigh.

            "We will have to bind and gag this one," she said. "Otherwise she is bound to cry out and get us found." Jussac frowned at Milady.

            "There are other ways to keep people quiet." Taking his arm from about her waist, he fumbled in his purse for a gold coin then held it up in front of her eyes.

            "If you do not scream when I let you go, you will have this." She nodded shakily against his hand and was mute when he released her. He pulled a second coin as he gave her the first.

            "And this one is so that you swear to say nothing of our presence here, understood?" When she nodded again, he handed it to her and she turned and went into another room as if they were not there. They went out into the wet street and returned to the front of the palace where their chicken cart was still sitting, waiting for them, despite having been there all night and day. The horses pawed the ground and tossed their heads, drops of water flying from their manes. D'Artagnan climbed to the front of the cart and directed the horses to turn it around before Milady, Jussac, and the King pulled themselves up into the back and he whipped them into movement.

            "This cart reeks of fowl," complained the King. "And the English roads are ridiculously bumpy. They should fix them. Surely you three could not have at least found something with a roof on it so we would not get so wet?" This stream of whining continued until they left the city, where Louis finally grew tired of hearing his own voice and curled up against a cart with his arms around his knees. They reached the docks in Dover, soaked through, shivering, and making an overall sad picture as they abandoned their vehicle and began to search for a potentially willing captain. Spotting a man whose face was as wrinkled as a used blanket and sporting grizzled grey hair, D'Artagnan pointed Milady to him, and as she was so tired of being cold and damp, she offered no complaint to his choice and proceeded to bribe the man with three bejeweled rings and at least fifty _livres_. They boarded the dinghy, which offered little comfort against the bitter winds and the salty waves that splashed their backs. Upon arrival on the ship, they did not bother with food as they huddled together in a cabin and stripped down to their barest layers to allow their clothes to hang and drip dry, all propriety forgotten in the face of base need to be warm. Seated side by side on a bunk, knees touching, they waited anxiously for the ship to depart and when it did without further problems, they allowed themselves to feel the exhaustion of the last few hours. With the rocking of the waves, Jussac and D'Artagnan were lulled to sleep, leaning back against the cabin wall. Louis was quiet, watching the lantern dangling from the ceiling swing back and forth, and Milady was contemplative, watching the young King.

            "Sire, do you know why this war came about?" Louis looked at her with bleary eyes and a confused stare.

            "England simply decided to negate the peace treaty and help the Huguenots, Milady. There is nothing more to it."

            "Actually, that is not even close to the true reason for this, Sire," she sighed. "How much do you know about the affair of the Queen's diamonds?"

            "There was no such affair! Anne sent those jewels to be polished and was concerned that she would not have them back in time when I asked her to wear them to the ball." Although his reasoning could be considered sound, Milady could detect the hesitation in his voice. He was thinking about the forged letters that revealed a false affair between his Queen and the Duke of Buckingham and which he did not know were forged.

            "Sire, I wish to confess to you my part in this affair, for I was only the person to act, not the one who made this plot. I forged letters from Buckingham to the Queen, stole and used his seal to make them appear authentic, and placed them in the Queen's desk for you to find. Then I stole Her Majesty's diamonds and took them to the Tower of London to make it appear as if she had given them away during Buckingham's visit to France."

            "Then how in God's name did she have them at that ball?" he demanded, his exhaustion seemingly forgotten in the face of her confession. "And who made this plot if you were only its actor?"

            "The Queen must have discovered her necklace missing and suspected who had plotted against her. She sent several of your musketeers, the best you have, along with little D'Artagnan here, to retrieve it in London where they stole an airship and laid waste to Buckingham's office in the Tower of London. I had departed before the attack occurred and took the diamonds with me to make sure your musketeers did not succeed in finding them."

            "I can certainly assume my loyal men retrieved the diamonds otherwise she would not have arrived with them. I will not ask how they managed to land that ship, which I now know was no gift, and accomplish the task of returning them to Anne as it seems impossible to comprehend." He paused, rubbing his fingers in circles against his temples. Jussac snorted in his sleep and fell against Milady's shoulder as the ship jerked. She pushed him away with a look of disgust yet he did not even stir.

            "You did not yet tell me to whom I lay blame for this plot, Madame," Louis said in the quietest voice she had heard from him yet.

            "Sire, I fear telling you will only cause more harm than good, but I shall divulge his identity to you. At the behest of Cardinal Richelieu, I committed the acts which I have just recounted to you."

            "Richelieu, yet again! That man seems to have done nothing but deceive me!" Standing up abruptly with a fist in the air, Louis was angry. His yelling startled D'Artagnan awake and he felt on to the floor in a sleep daze, staring up at the enraged monarch.

            "I shall not stand for his deception any longer! We shall return to France and drive him from my kingdom along with the English if it is the last thing I do as King!" He turned suddenly to Milady with his face still stern. She watched him with a closed expression, hiding her worry. Once Richelieu knew she had revealed what he had done, and should the King imprison her for being his accomplice, the Cardinal would do nothing to protect her if he had any power left to do so.

            "Milady, I shall not hold you accountable for this plot," he said gently. "I believe that you were convinced you were serving France in that blasted Cardinal's name and besides, you did lead these men to my rescue, for which I am eternally grateful. You will be greatly rewarded for this loyalty to us."

            "I thank you, Your Majesty," said Milady. "You truly are Louis the Just."

            D'Artagnan picked himself up off the floor, rubbing the back of his head with a wince as he brushed the forming bump and biting his tongue to keep from saying anything. Milady was a wily woman and nothing he could say now would convince the King of her guilt in that scheme against him. He settled himself back into place, as did the King, and soon all four of them had fallen asleep against one another, rocked by the motion of the bobbing ship. They arrived in Calais the following day, awakened by one of the captain's knock at their door. They dressed hurriedly, giving Milady privacy even though it had not mattered so much so the previous night, and quickly boarding a dinghy to be taken to shore. Hungry, they sheltered in an inn and ate minimally to conserve funds. The food itself was hardly worth the money paid, a meagre goose pâté with day old bread and bitter wine, but Louis was unable to protest when Milady reminded him of the uniforms they wore, which would make any Frenchman vengeful in the current warring climate. Before heading off they had to turn yet another couple of pieces of Milady's jewelry into gold pieces in order to purchase mounts. On their return to Paris, however, when they stopped to let the horses breathe, Louis spoke:

            "I have changed my mind," he said, turning to the three others who regarded him with expressions of surprise and suspicion. He smiled at them disarmingly.

            "I will not go to Paris, not just yet. In considering the situation, particularly after that stop we made to eat in Calais, I have decided to instead head to La Rochelle with all haste in order to drive out the English. They are the bigger priority at the present as I am certain Anne and my other ministers can hold Paris together between their many capable hands. We will leave as soon as the horses are rested."

            As soon as this was so, Milady, Jussac, and D'Artagnan had no choice but to follow as the King turned his steed southwest and spurred it into a gallop. The questions that rattled their brain, about money, about food, about a change of clothes, would simply have to settle themselves on the journey.

***

            Roderic stared at the uniform draped on his bed, the white fleur-de-lis cross gleaming clean and bright against the blue background in the light of the low-flickering candle. He never liked blue very much, but as it was a gift from the Cardinal, he could hardly refuse it.

            _The summons, early in the morning before he had even eaten breakfast, was an annoyance, and the later parade that day before his company left for war would only further delay him from eating. The sun was barely over the horizon, a weak, watery light that left the streets of Paris shadowed, and not even the great market at Les Halles was ready for business. He arrived at the Palais Cardinal irritable and grumbling, his stomach yawning with hunger, and was shown into Richelieu's office immediately. When the door shut behind him, Roderic removed his hat and approached the desk where the Cardinal was busy writing. The Queen had only allowed the Statesman back into his office recently to give him the space he needed to plan for the battle in La Rochelle, acknowledging his superior tactical skills with great reluctance. Roderic waited before him, playing with his hat brim unconsciously as the silence dragged on._

_"You have failed me, my young guardsman," said Richelieu, standing but not turning his eyes away from the map spread on the desk._

_"Monseigneur, I have been your loyal servant--" he began._

_"Yes, but you have not been very forthcoming with your observations, have you?" said Richelieu, cutting him off. "You did not think the disappearance of that foolish Gascon D'Artagnan was of importance? Those three musketeers recommended him to Tréville and got him into Des Essart's company. His desertion could have discredited all three, and yet you chose not to inform me of this. I am very disappointed with you."_

_"Monseigneur, please understand that is quite difficult to keep up with all of them at once, and I too had to prepare my equipment for war like any other soldier in the regiment. While they are certainly busy wasting their days indulging in disgraceful pleasures, I was attempting to gather what I needed. I--"_

_"Enough," said Richelieu, taking a sheet of parchment from a drawer. He placed it before Roderic, eyes never waving as he traced a path of attack with his finger on the map._

_"This should make you more useful to me," he said, gesturing to the paper. "It is a nobility title."_

_"Your Eminence, I..." Roderic trailed off, lost for words as he took the paper in hand and read it. "Thank you, but why?" Finally, Richelieu looked up at him, bracing his hands on the desk surface and gazing at the young man sternly._

_"It pays your right of passage into the musketeers, and it is my will that you join them. You are of more use to me here than at La Rochelle at present," he paused, lifting a hand and a finger on that hand in a firm pointing gesture. "I will have none of your paltry excuses not to complete the mission I have given you, for your own well-being." Roderic swallowed back the lump that blocked his throat. The Cardinal offered him an ink-filled quill._

_"I will not fail Your Eminence again," he said, taking the pen and bending to sign the parchment._

_"See that you do not."_

            Elevated to the title of chevalier de Sissonne, a small place close to the borders of the duchy of Lorraine just north of Reims, Roderic was now eligible to be part of the King's Musketeers. Despite being out of favour, Richelieu had spoken to the Queen of the young man's bravery and the need for a reward after his actions alongside those of Athos in Buckingham's capture, and Her Majesty agreed. Tréville had not been so easy to convince, being ever suspicious of Richelieu's motives, but as he had no real reason to reject the young man and the Queen approved the decision, he allowed him in.

            It did not matter that Richelieu had spies everywhere and that he already knew of the Gascon's apparent desertion. What did matter was that Roderic had not been doing his job, which meant staying close to Athos and his friends and keeping an eye on them. With the boy gone, Richelieu was only dealing with the three musketeers who had assisted in foiling his plot of subverting, shaming and executing the confident, strong Queen and effectively ruling through the distraught King.

            Roderic knew not what role he had to play in this, his only instructions being still to watch Athos, Porthos, and Aramis for any further misdeeds that could get them into trouble or any significant weaknesses ripe for exploitation. Yet their only weakness he could determine was each other. It was difficult to find one of them alone without either or both comrades hard on their heels, chasing one another around like puppies. He knew Athos broke away on occasion to see Orianne, which he distinctly disapproved of but could frankly do nothing about, and he suspected she held his confidence, but could she truly be considered a weakness for the aloof soldier?

            He tossed the uniform unceremoniously to the ground, stripped down to shirt and stockings, and flopped on his bed, a pallet of straw that he struggled to keep tucked under the pinned sheet. He lay on his side, staring at the puddle of blue and white fabric, seemingly mocking him from its position half under his lone chair. He scoffed, got up from his bed, scooped up the cloth, and hung the cassock over the chair back. He did not need a scolding from Tréville for his uniform being in complete disarray before it had seen its first use. He glanced briefly at the gleaming musket on the table lying next to the skinny stand he would use to balance the weapon and baldric of powder flasks that made him a walking explosive. If he was not careful, he could die out there, die in a sudden, fiery burst as a hot musket ball struck any one of the flasks and set it alight. He could be caught in the blast from another being struck in a similar fashion, as all musketeers, those of the King, the Cardinal, or those in the infantry, had to carry their powder somehow and all of them did.

            All of them, including the Inseparables. Roderic could feel the idea turning in his mind, making his blood run cold despite his racing heart. One misplaced shot on the battlefield and he would send any one of them up in flames, and since they were never far apart, all three could be finished in that one instant. No one would take notice, too busy trying to save their own skins from the blast, and would assume the Protestants shooting back caused it. If he only got one, the remainder would be vulnerable just the same. Pride is a vanity and the bond that they took such pride in guarding would be their downfall.

            The Cardinal would be pleased with his efforts and reward him further. He would have his revenge for the humiliation he suffered from Porthos and Aramis where upon they forced him into that brothel, that den of sin, and his sister would be finally safe from Athos' influence on her.

            With this in mind, Roderic returned to bed, blew out the candle, and was at last able to rest.


	33. Discoveries & Homeward Travels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MILD SEXUAL CONTENT
> 
> Grad School is tough; please forgive the time between chapters.

The day dawned bright and warm, light streaming in through opened drapes. Athos felt the sunlight on his face and squinted into it, wondering why he felt so rested when a shuffling in the bed space beside him drew his attention. He tipped his head sideways to gaze at Orianne's mane of brown hair draped over white, rounded shoulders. He could see her arms tucked under the pillow and, glancing up a little, saw her hands with little coloured fingertips gripping it, holding it close. He smiled; rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. He pushed her hair off her one shoulder and traced along the line of her neck to her shoulder gently with his fingers. She gave a soft sound under his touch, a quiet groan as she was pulled from her sleep. Her head rolled over slowly and she peered at him blearily through a few strands that hung over her face.         

"Good morning," he said softly. She smiled drowsily and muttered it back, closing her eyes again. He leaned in to kiss her temple and his hand slid along her back, the smoothness sometimes interrupted by one of the small scars he had felt the previous night. She was warm with sleep and life under his touch. He kissed her shoulder and he could see one of her blue eyes, pale in the light, watching him. The stirrings in his loins distracted him as he recalled the evening and he pressed his nose to her skin, taking a deep breath of her scent.      

"Are you well?" he asked as he smoothed his wandering hand over her soft bottom. She nodded into her pillow, yawning quietly. He raised a brow, sat up on his knees, and grabbed her far shoulder to encourage her to roll over into the center of the bed. Then he placed himself over her, knees on either side of her hips and already half-hard. She gazed up at him, tousled, rosy, and nipping at the corner of her lip. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers, feeling her breath hitch a moment before she responded, winding her arms about his neck. They exchanged heated kisses for several moments before they both stopped for want of air. Athos watched her gaze flick down him as he sat back on his knees and knew by the deepening flush in her cheeks that she had noticed his wakefulness. He chuckled lowly as she turned her gaze away purposefully in her embarrassment then found it kept wandering back.         

"Are you certain?" he asked, tracing the curvature of her sides with his hands. "I do not want to hurt you. It was your first time after all." She swallowed hard and he felt her shiver as his fingers brushed along her ribcage.

"A little sore," she said, biting her lip again. Athos gave a slow, comprehending nod. He had expected that she would be, and was certain that if he deigned to look under the cover he would find a slight trace of blood on the sheet, but he was content in knowing that he had not been overzealous. He lined his hands up alongside her breasts and gently began to flick their points with his thumbs. Her breathing changed, a little quicker, and he felt her lower body clench underneath him. He continued this for a couple minutes or so until he finally got a whimper out of her and her hips shifted ever so slightly beneath his heavier frame. He leaned in close, warm breaths brushing her ear, their chests pressed together.

"Shall I help you feel better?" he whispered, laying slow, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw and neck. She gave a soft moan and he smiled against her skin as he came up to take her mouth with his once more.

***

"Does your Majesty have any idea what Richelieu could want now?" asked Tréville, tapping his fingers on the head of his walking stick. He felt new stiffness along his joints that he never expected to feel for some years yet, but his fall had sped up its arrival. The Queen sighed and regarded him tiredly.

"The Cardinal is wily and dangerous. He has already tried to disgrace me once. I will not take him lightly as an opponent against France despite the airs he puts on."  Porthos and Aramis, standing back from the seated pair, shared a look. Neither the Queen nor Tréville spoke to the genius of the man nor the knowledge that their war against the English could be a lost cause in La Rochelle without him. Richelieu had asked suddenly for a meeting with the Queen and Tréville, along with his best men, that morning, sparking curiosity with the declaration that he had a way to end this war before it could entrench itself and stretch into the winter. Though a winter war would hinder the enemy, it was of little use for the French as often times little to no fighting would occur, no ground would be gained and or rarely lost, and the cost of feeding and maintaining the army had the potential to bankrupt the Treasury, as had occurred with many monarchs in history. War is expensive, and any means to shorten it to their advantage would be welcomed.

"Where is Athos?" Aramis whispered to Porthos out of the corner of his mouth. Porthos shook his head.

"No sign of him this morning," he said, trying to whisper in his booming voice.

"Tréville sent a servant to fetch him earlier," Aramis muttered back. "Last thing we need is Athos disappearing too." There was a knock on the door and La Porte opened it to reveal Richelieu dressed in the red robes of his rank, followed by the Grey Eminence carrying a stack of scrolls. They bowed to the Queen and she nodded, allowing them to begin.

"Your Majesty, I thank you for granting me this meeting," said Richelieu.

"You told us that you had a plan to shorten our war against the English," said Anne shortly, "please, enlighten us." Tréville leaned forward, crossing his hands on the walking stick. Richelieu did a half bow then reached to the Grey Eminence, who hand him one scroll.

"I bring to you a gift, Madame, a gift of a new weapon that will support the King's armies with more force than anything the English could conceive." He broke the seal on his scroll and opened it, looking over its contents with a critical eye. "The English have their fleet in the air and I offer to you the firepower with which to destroy them."

La Porte brought over a small table and set it before the Queen so that Richelieu could spread out his paper in front of her. The design was that of another airship with double decks of cannons, larger sails, and an increased air sack to lift it all from the ground. The body of it was reminiscent to her of a Spanish Galleon. Tréville looked over the plans as well, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. Aramis and Porthos frowned in the background, caught Richelieu's eye and the brief smug smile he flashed their way, and schooled their expressions into ones of neutrality.

"Your Eminence, as grateful as we are to you for your efforts in designing this, but I can hardly see how this could be built in time for us to go to war," said Anne, sitting back in her seat, her examination of the plans completed. Tréville pulled them closer to him.

"These are extensive, but the Queen in right," he stated. "There is no time to complete this."

"We do not need to begin any work as it has already been completed," said Richelieu, folding his hands behind his back. "I intended to present my completed project to the King as a surprise, but with the state of affairs as they were, progress was slowed."

"So they are ready for flight then," said the Queen, her face giving no hint as to her emotions.

"Indeed they are, Your Majesty. There are already crews trained to handle them, and are loaded with all the cargo necessary for war."

"I would assume that these crews are made of your own men, Your Eminence," said Tréville with narrowed eyes. Having such firepower solely in the Cardinal's hands was too great a risk, the example already made with the damage to the Notre Dame cathedral.

"Quite so, Monsieur," said Richelieu, "but I was hoping that your best men would be willing to captain them." Here he made a grand gesture towards Porthos and Aramis. "And you would certainly train some of your other men to man the vessels. After all, every soldier needs to rest, do they not?" Tréville regarded him with barely hidden suspicion, but knew he was unable to refute this. Allowing his men to be trained in airship flight and combat on Richelieu's ships would be more advantageous to the Crown than letting the Cardinal have full control.

"Of course I would have my musketeers trained for such endeavours," assured the Gascon gentleman to the Queen, to which she nodded with a little contented smile.

"We thank you for this, Cardinal," said Anne, turning to the man in red. "But I believe I heard you say 'vessels' and not 'vessel'. Just how many of these machines have you constructed?"

"Three others, Madame, not including the sabotaged craft," replied Richelieu. There was silence in the room as the seated company considered the dangers of this revelation had they never discovered the differed money from the Treasury months before. Tréville sighed and stood, turning to the monarch.

"Your Majesty, with your permission, I ask to take my leave as I now must decide which of my men will be trained."

"You may, Captain," she replied with a slight faintness. Tréville turned to the Cardinal with a stiff expression.

"My thanks, Your Eminence, for your generous gift to the King," he said slowly, emphasizing the title of the man he served. "I am sure it will be of a great service to France." The Cardinal lifted his hand in a benevolent gesture and Tréville left, Porthos and Aramis following him out.

"With me, both of you," Tréville ordered, walking away from the meeting chamber's door. The two musketeers shared a brief look before following the marching step of their leader punctuated by the tap of his stick. His face was pinched with consternation. Once two halls away, Tréville stopped and turned to face them abruptly, and they were forced to pause in turn so as not to run into him.

"Where the bloody hell is Athos?" demanded the irate man. "I sent a man to inform him of the meeting and the damn fool does not even show up!"

"Perhaps he is in his room," suggested Aramis.

"Then we will check it, and if he is not there then you two will scour every damned tavern in Paris until you drag him before me." They headed to where the smaller rooms of the Palais Cardinal were found, Tréville cursing Athos the entire way, and when they arrived at his door, he raised his stick to rap against it. He did not get the chance as the door opened to reveal Athos dressed only in his breeches and an untied shirt, his hair very tousled, and his forehead dotted with sweat. Aramis' brows went up in curiosity, Porthos started to smirk, and Tréville looked rather put off. Expecting him perhaps drunk or with the signs of a hangover, they instead found him healthily rosy, as if he had been involved in strenuous exercise.  

"Have you been here all this time?" the captain asked calmly, the glower on his face highly contrasting with this tone. Athos shifted himself so he was half in and half out of the door, effectively blocking any vision inside, unless Porthos should be so determined to peer over his head.

"I was," said Athos. "Has some issue arisen that I was unaware of?" This was the wrong question to ask, despite its legitimacy, as Tréville's rapidly reddening face answered for him.

"Had you responded to my servant, whom I sent earlier with a summons for you, you would have known that there was a meeting with the Queen and the Cardinal this morning!" Athos blinked slowly at him in mute surprise.

"I apologise, Captain, for my error, but no servant came. At least, not that I heard if they had knocked. Would you be willing to inform me as to what occurred?"

"When and if you are willing to present yourself with your excuses later in my office," barked Tréville, "which I look forward to hearing from you since you do not have the appearance of having tried to drown yourself in wine."

"Athos is everything fine?" asked a soft voice from behind the musketeer guarding his door like a dog with its bone. Porthos let out a loud laugh, pointing at Athos, whose face was looking was mutinous and daring them to say anything.

"It seems Athos was entertaining a lady last night, Captain!" The door opened a little further and Orianne peered out around Athos, looking very small in her chemise. Tréville glanced from the young woman to Athos with narrowed, questioning eyes. Athos gave an almost longsuffering sigh.

"I was going to tell you gentleman soon--" his tone suggested very much otherwise, "--but allow me to present to you my fiancée." There was a silence so thick, an executioner's axe could not have missed cutting through it.

"My congratulations, Mademoiselle Orianne," said Aramis, breaking the stunned silence. Then, turning to Athos, he asked, "When is the wedding?" Athos glared at him and remained silent.

"We have not talked about it yet," mumbled Orianne shyly, talking more to the floor. She quickly ducked back inside the room and out of sight, her cheeks aflame.

"I shall expect you in my office as soon as you are able," ordered Tréville shortly. "We will speak then." Athos nodded and went back inside the room, closing the door.

***

"Damn this weather," cursed Jussac, huddling futilely under his cloak. His sentiments echoed the thoughts of the other members of the party, their rain-whipped faces frozen into grim looks of weary bitterness. They had not stopped for two days since their arrival save for resting the horses on the roadside or taking a quick meal at ramshackle inns set up in lonely, out-of-the-way areas with bitter wine and little in the way of meals to which a King was accustomed. Yet surprisingly Louis was the last one to complain about the quality of food, the lack of fresh clothing or even the nasty weather that had hampered them since their departure from Calais. Their horses struggled on as they came to Le Mans, another few days ride from La Rochelle. Jussac looked along the road leading away as they came into town, waving towards it irritably.

"Paris was only a two day journey away when we were in Rouen," he said. "Why could we not have gone into the city?"

"Because the King wants to go to La Rochelle," snapped D'Artagnan. "Will you ever be quiet and stop whining?"

"Would it make more sense to show up to a French war camp in English uniforms?" argued Jussac. "They will shoot us on sight!" Milady halted her horse next to Jussac, Louis coming up alongside her.

"Sometimes, Jussac, I forget that you are on rare occasions a man of sense. He is right Your Majesty," she said, turning to the King. "If you arrive in your current attire, one of your soldiers will commit regicide without knowing they are doing so." Louis scoffed in disbelief, throwing his head back and almost tossing off his blood red crushed velvet hat with the movement.

"My men shoot me? They should recognise me on sight. I am the King of France, I will have you know Milady and--"

"Your Majesty," interrupted D'Artagnan. "We only bring this up out of concern for your safety. La Rochelle will still be there if we give up half a day to obtain new, not English clothing." Louis frowned at the young man, put off by his interruption.

"If we must,” he sighed. “We shall seek out a tailor where I will have a suit made that is fit for me. After having to borrow English suits for so long, it will be good to have my own things." D'Artagnan bowed his head low enough to hide the victorious smirk that crossed his lips. They detoured into Le Mans and located a tailor who at first refused to serve because they were English then bowed and scraped to make it up to them when he realised he was serving the French King. Louis' demands, however, nearly bankrupted them with their ostentatious ornamentation of gold threaded seams, perfumed calfskin gloves trimmed with fur, and silk paneling in the flounced, slashed breeches. Their purse was further alleviated by a full set of travelling clothes made in sturdier but still high quality material. One gold ring studded with a scratched sapphire remained after all this, which Milady traded with a slight reluctance to make herself, Jussac, and d'Artagnan new clothes in basic colours of off-white and brown, giving them the appearances of peasants. The cloth was of a coarse, itchy weave that Milady and Jussac were not used to whereas d'Artagnan blessed his farming roots in that this was no hindrance for him.

"There, now we are presentable," stated the King gladly. The other three shared an expression of exasperation, It was sunset when they left Le Mans. Their saddlebags were filled with food packets provided by the tailor's wife and they began their trip with renewed vigor. Blessed with luck, their troupe encountered no bandits along the roads and arrived at La Rochelle a day later than they had hoped due to yet another storm forcing them to shelter in an abandoned, crumbling homestead. The wind had been relentless and a permanent dampness seemed to settle into their very bones. The tents were set up in clumps depending on their units, people milling about in the spaces between them. A larger silken canopy tent woven with the crests of d'Orléans and the royal arms of France was planted a short distance away from the army. Several airships were moored far from the Protestants' firing range in order to keep a stray ball potentially striking its powdery cargo and exploding them.

"We have arrived at last!" declared Louis, throwing his arms up before taking his reins and spurring his horse into a last burst of speed down into the camp, forcing the others to do the same.

"Your Majesty, wait!" d'Artagnan called and was completely ignored. Soldiers turned on seeing the incoming riders and there was a scramble for arms, as they feared an attack on their camp.

"Hold your fire!" yelled Jussac. "Do not shoot else you will shoot the King!" At least two shots were fired before Jussac's continued repeated shouts reached their ears, both of which missed. Any guns about to fire were immediately shot into the air. Others were seen to be desperately trying to blow out their wicks before they accidently pulled the trigger. One misplaced shot even took off with Des Essarts' hat when he came rushing through to see what all the commotion was about.

"Ah Monsieur Des Essarts, it is a pleasure to see you," said Louis in what he believed to be his stately voice. "Would the Duke d'Orléans be in his tent at present?" Des Essarts gaped at the King of France for several moments before he managed to fumble out a consenting reply.

"Indeed he is, Your Majesty. I will inform him of your arrival."

"Excellent!" The King declared with a smile. "For we are starved, and these poor beasts need a long rest I should say. They have been very good to us." Des Essarts glanced at the rest of the King's party and stopped on D'Artagnan, who had been ducking his head in hopes of not being immediately recognised and had stopped his mount next to the King. His shock turned into a serious frown.

"Sire, I must take Monsieur D'Artagnan into custody," he stated, pointing to the young Gascon. "He is wanted for desertion of my company." Louis waved his hand in a nonchalant way then reached to place it on D’Artagnan’s shoulder almost possessively.

"Oh no, Monsieur, you may leave him where he is. He is hardly a deserter. After all, what deserter would leave their King's military only to run straight to the King in the first place?" Des Essarts excused himself to order one of his men off to the Duke's distant tent, having no way to counter this little turn of logic that left Louis chuckling at his own genius. The King dismounted amongst the soldiers, who quickly backed up to give him a wide berth of space then parted rapidly as the Duke d'Orléans approached, followed by one of Richelieu's preferred generals, Bassompierre. The stood before the King with surprise etched on their faces.

"Sire, this is unexpected," exclaimed Bassompierre, "but most welcome indeed!"

"It is good to be back on French soil," stated Louis, plainly for once. "I for one could never tolerate living in England all my life. It is so wet and damp, and the people have no class."

"Then it is good that you are here," said d'Orléans with a hint of a lack of conviction. His expression was frowning and almost bitter. Louis was ignorant of this, however, taking his younger brother’s shoulders and kissing his cheeks in an affectionate gesture.

“It has been awhile since we last saw each other, Gaston,” said Louis with a sigh. “I hope you are not still put off with me over your misdeeds. I cannot have you attempting to subvert my chief minister after all.” The guards around them shuffled awkwardly, looking in every direction but at the royal siblings. D’Orléans ground his teeth, pressing Louis’s hand between his own with a rather forced shake.

“Perhaps Your Majesty would wish to rest in my tent,” offered Bassompierre. Louis shook his head.

“No, no, I want to know how the siege fares. Show me your plans and we shall see what can be done about these Huguenots.” He walked away with d’Orléans on one side and Bassompierre on the other.

“Some gratitude our King has,” muttered Jussac darkly only to receive sharp glares from Milady and D’Artagnan.

“That is enough from you,” scolded Milady. “We are alive and His Majesty will remember us in due course. You only need to have more patience.”

“D’Artagnan, a moment,” called Des Essarts. D’Artagnan tipped his hat to Milady, who nodded in reply, and reluctantly held a hand out to Jussac. The Cardinal’s Guard snatched it and pulled the boy closer to him.

“If you ever grow sick of those musketeers, you let me know,” he said lowly with a strange smile. D’Artagnan’s expression froze on stoic, but within he fought violently against his nausea. Now was not the place to seek satisfaction for such propositions. He allowed Jussac to give his hand a telling squeeze before he purposefully extricated himself and went to join Des Essarts, who guided him into his tent, offered him a seat and a cup of wine before beginning to speak.

“You have had everyone concerned. It was not like you to disappear so suddenly without notice,” the captain remarked with a brow raised. D’Artagnan nursed his cup guiltily.

“I had few options, Monsieur, I assure you. I owed a life debt that needed to be repaid if I could consider myself a gentleman.”

“Next time, send word before you run off, would you?” Des Essarts cuffed the boy’s shoulder affectionately, almost knocking him backwards.

“I will do my best, Monsieur,” promised the Gascon, downing the contents of his cup afterwards.

“Good, good. I will write to my brother-in-law and inform him of your arrival here, and that the King has pardoned you. I am sure your friends will be pleased to hear of your safety.” D’Artagnan bit his lip and nodded. Des Essarts waved him out, promising that he would make sure the three of them had places to sleep that night, and D’Artagnan looked around cluelessly once back in the camp. Milady and Jussac had already disappeared, and as D’Artagnan had not tried particularly hard to make friends with his fellows guardsmen, he found he had no one to turn to with whom to occupy himself. He began to wander, hoping perhaps to see Roderic, even if the last they had seen each other was when the German had tried to strangle him. Yet even with this, he had no luck and he wondered whether the other man had deserted or already been killed.

“D’Artagnan!” He turned to see Des Essarts waving his hat at him, calling him back. He jogged to the gentleman and saluted him, removing his hat.

“Yes, Monsieur?”

“The King is summoning you. You had best be off.” The captain pointed towards d’Orléans’ tent. “You will find him there. Hurry along, lad.” D’Artagnan saluted again, donned his hat once more, and marched off to where the King awaited. On approach, he could see the tent was lit inside, the people moving about casting great, monstrous shadows on the walls everytime they passed a light. Two guards bearing halberds stood on duty outside the entrance, crossing them in his face when he made to enter.

“I have an audience with the King!” D’Artagnan protested. The guards shared a look then one removed his weapon and entered the tent to announce the youth.

“We can let him pass,” he said to his comrade when he returned. They stepped back into their posts, weapons at their side once more. D’Artagnan pushed past the folds of the entrance, hat in hand.

“There you are D’Artagnan! What took you so long?” said Louis. “Come here.” He was seated in a wooden chair that, by its carvings, had the vague vestiges of a throne. D’Artagnan approached and bowed low.

“Your Majesty, I am honoured by your summons.”

“There is a matter most urgent that we must address,” said the King, straightening in his seat as if to appear as regal as possible. “We owe yourself and your two companions a great debt.”

“Any soldier loyal to Your Majesty would have done the same.”

“Be that as it may, a reward is merited. When Tréville arrives with the Musketeers, you will join them as one of their rank. I believe that your efforts have sufficiently proven your loyalty and courage to be considered worthy to be given a commission as a Musketeer.” D’Artagnan felt his heart swell and he could not fight the smile that burst forth across his face.

“Thank you, Sire. Thank you.”

“May you remain as loyal and brave as you have shown us.”

“I swear to you; I shall.”


	34. Settlements

_Dear Orianne,_

_A week has passed already since we have joined our comrades at La Rochelle. His Royal Highness the Prince has already started the siege and the Rochelois, as well as a number of these accursed Englishmen, have taken refuge behind the great fortress of the city, despite the marked absence of Buckingham. We will without a shadow of a doubt make them see reason, and if not, hunger and isolation will see the end of their stubborness. For the time being, the rascals jeer and mock us with songs and insults, safely behind their walls._

_His Majesty the King arrived in the camp a few days before us, accompanied by some of the least likely companions I could possibly imagine: Milady, Jussac and the young hot headed Gascon that we thought to be a traitor or vanished. Porthos and Aramis are well over his foolishness and I suppose there is something to praise, if one can look beyond the shock of seeing him in company that is half august and half hideous. I, however, feel I need a little more time to absorb it. Aramis thinks I should speak to the boy, and I suppose he is right. The wretch has taken to following me around like some lost puppy with its tail between its legs. I do not take well to have my trust betrayed and I do not think I can allow this confidence quite so soon._

_Please forgive my sentimental outbursts, my dear. At the eve of certain battle, what comes to my mind are the tender moments, sparse but warm and unforgettable, that we shared. Know that you are in my heart and that the thought of you will give me strength when comes the time to face the enemy._

_Yours most devoutly,_

_Athos_

 

    Athos set down his quill, reading over his letter once more through the dim light that filtered through the fabric around him. Satisfied with its contents, he laid it aside to dry and stood half-bent to exit his blessedly hole-free tent, hoping to find Aramis or Porthos somewhere in the sea of fabric lodgings. Brushing aside one of the entrance folds, he frowned as he saw who awaited him on the other side. D’Artagnan, dressed in his new uniform and whetting his sword with a small hand stone, had placed himself to the immediate right of the tent entrance and was seated cross-legged on the ground. Athos paid him no mind after this, exiting the tent, stretching his spine then purposely walking in the opposite direction of the boy with the quickly dashed hopes that D’Artagnan’s equally quick eyes would not notice.

    “Athos, wait!” There was the sound of a sword being sheathed then its clatter on his hip as the boy jogged to catch up with Athos’s longer strides. He caught Athos’s sleeve in hopes of slowing him, which the older man jerked away sharply as if he had been caught on a twig.

“Athos, please, will you listen to me? I have already explained to all of you why I went to London with her, and Aramis and Porthos understood. Why can’t you?” Athos pointedly ignored him, giving only an indignant sound to indicate any acknowledgement of the young man’s words. They came to an open area where one of many fires had been set up and skirted around the group gathered about the flickering flames, trying to ward off their chills.

There was the sudden shrill of a distant horn, summoning the various units together, and Athos hurried along, reluctantly tolerating the accompaniment his ever-eager shadow. Swiss dragoons, fellow King’s Musketeers, members of the Royal Guard, and those who made up the Cardinal’s Guard seemed to gather together in a brief swell before funnelling away into their divided units. Tréville awaited his men near to the front and centre of the gathering and that is where Athos found Aramis and Porthos at the head of the group, talking between themselves at ease. He approached with D’Artagnan hot on his heels and angry as a wasp at being so ignored. He felt the boy jab him in the back with a finger and Athos gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to turn and face him.

    “Athos, you are being ridiculous about this. Why will you not accept my apology and let this go?”

    “Athos, D’Artagnan, we were wondering whether you would arrive in time,” interrupted Aramis with a smile, which quickly replaced itself with a frown upon noticing Athos’ thunderous expression and D’Artagnan’s equally irate one. Porthos threw his arms over both their shoulders roughly and gave them a shake.

    “Come on now you two, we are friends. Haven’t we enough problems with the Rochelois and the English?”

“I keep trying to tell him that!” snapped the Gascon. “I cannot help it if he’s too much of an old drunk to listen to me.”

“Really D’Artagnan, take a moment and think--” started Aramis.

“Surely if Tréville expects us to work with this idiot child then he must be madder than all the lepers in France,” snarled Athos. “I have had about enough of being followed around by some desperate, whining puppy!”

“Athos, come on now, you don’t mean--” began Porthos. Athos threw his arm off his shoulders and stomped around to face the boy, who glared up at him now with equal frustration.

“I believe we have a duel that was never finished some time ago,” spat the older musketeer. “I shall expect you immediately after the Captain has given his orders.”

“Fine, but if you try to run away, I will not hesitate to give you what you deserve!” Challenge made, the two took places on either side of Porthos and Aramis, who looked from one to the other with a mixture of consternation and concern. Before they could attempt to intervene, Treville called them to attention and silence reigned. Distant sounds of shouting as commands were given could be heard from the battle lines, almost drowned out by the rapport of gun and cannon fire on the ground and in the sky. The ships that the Duke d’Orléans had captured had not held up well to the English assault under the inexperienced hands of their helmsmen who were more used to the sea than the air. One ship had been destroyed and now lay in the largest river’s path, half-sunken from the water intake through the gaping holes in its hull.

However, this was considered a blessing because it was now becoming part of the framework of a dike to block the river and prevent the sea-bound English vessels from coming close and providing the Rochelois with support. A second airship was damaged and had been landed for repairs in order to salvage it as part of the fleet gifted to the King by Richelieu. Louis, ecstatic to have his own air fleet, had been quick to abandon his resolution of chasing Richelieu from France and had proved a willing student into incorporating new battle strategies involving the airships into the war plans as a whole. Reassured by the Cardinal that the hulls of the ships were twice as solid as those of the English fleet, the King was eager to see them in action as soon as possible before the English managed to somehow sabotage them as even without Buckingham, they were effective soldiers.

Athos found his attention wandering as Treville spoke, his mind still harassed his anger with D’Artagnan, until the mention of his name brought him back to the present situation.

“Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, you three will be the captains of the King’s fleet, and I recommend that you to pick and train your crew with great haste. If you have to teach them whilst in the air, so be it. D’Artagnan will accompany any one of you as needed since there is not a fourth ship. Musketeers, dismissed!”

"There, now you can't try to kill each other over this foolish argument because Treville expects us all to be on those ships!" declared Porthos. "Let's head to that inn nearby and have a drink. What was it called again Aramis?"

"The Red Dovecote, and that sounds like an excellent idea. Let us settle this dispute over a nice cup of wine." However, D'Artagnan and Athos were ignoring them both entirely, already separating and drawing their swords. Other nearby musketeers were noticing the activity and starting to form a curious circle of onlookers.

"Aramis, is that not Roderic over there?" Porthos was pointing across the circle. Aramis frowned at him.

"Porthos, you are so easily distracted! Here our friends are going to try to kill each other and you are wondering about Orianne's brother?"

"But he is right there in a musketeer's uniform! How did he join our ranks so fast?" Aramis sighed and indulged the larger man, looking across the now formed circle to be surprised by Porthos' astute observation. The young man in question stood there with a glower on his face and arms crossed over his chest over which hung a blue musketeer tabard. Aramis narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"I am not sure how he got his new rank Porthos, but you are right. It is him." He wondered at the expression on the German's face, but it could hardly be surprising since Roderic would likely not have heard of his sister's sudden engagement save through any gossip amongst soldiers. Aramis suspected that Athos had forgotten all about propriety in his haste to propose his suit to the young woman and had not received permission to do so from the nearest male relative responsible for her conduct, in this case her brother. The clatter of swords brought his attention back to the circle's center where his friends were facing off.

Athos bent his knees and formed his features into a cold, determined mask. D’Artagnan took his position, teeth bared in an angry snarl, but his eyes showed no similar heat. The tips of the weapons crossed and were still for a moment. D’Artagnan tested his opponent’s strength, batting against the blade with his own and found it knocking him aside with ease. The older musketeer came forward hard and fast, pressing him warmly and forcing him to focus on keeping himself standing lest he trip over the uneven ground. D’Artagnan stepped back and back to put distance between them and Athos met him stride for stride, their audience separating quickly to allow them to pass. Finally, D’Artagnan took the chance to thrust against Athos only for him to step around it and pink his inner elbow with a stinging whip of a blow to disable his arm then coming up deal a hard punch to his significantly smaller jaw, throwing him to the ground.

“Get up,” ordered Athos coldly, standing over the stunned man. “Stand and fight since you seem to think yourself so capable.”

“Athos, that is enough!” Aramis cut in, starting to come in front of him. Athos shoved him hard in the chest, pushing him down into the dirt with a glare. The momentary distraction gave D’Artagnan the opening he needed and he leapt to his feet and ran at him, ramming his head into his midsection and bringing them both down to the ground atop someone’s unfortunate tent.

“What is the meaning of this?” came a loud, angry voice. Treville shoved his way through to the front of the onlooking crowd, expression livid. D’Artagnan and Athos tussled on the ground as the older man got his breath back, finding purchase on parts of the other in order to land their blows.

“Stop this at once!” Treville yelled. D’Artagnan’s foot flailed and caught him in the shin, and as he stumbled, he tripped over Athos’s leg and fell into another tent.

“They’ll destroy the camp!”

“Grab them, pull them apart!” Other musketeers took action now, coming forward to overwhelm the pair and separate them before any more damage could be done. D’Artagnan, held back by two men, writhed and struggled though one could wonder how he could see as half his face from temple to chin was beginning swell with a purple bruise, and his bleeding nose coated his lips with blood. Athos, in the grips of three others, had not escaped unscathed with two beaten eyes as well as scratched cheeks from the boy’s fingernails. This also did not account for the likely bruising the two of them would face under their clothing later as they had tried to pummel anything they could reach on the other. Treville struggled to free himself from the pile of ripped fabric and broken wooden poles, cursing and flailing until Porthos came over and helped pull him to his feet.

“What the devil did you two think you were doing?” demanded Treville as he stood before them. Athos and D’Artagnan dared not look him in the eye, choosing instead to look beyond him. Dissatisfied, their captain got close enough that, had he been a little taller, he and Athos’s noses would have touched. D’Artagnan purposely directed his gaze elsewhere when similarly confronted, but the sweat beading on his brow marked his discomfort.

“I should have you removed from the musketeers for this despicable behaviour,” hissed Treville. “Just because the King himself granted you your commission does not mean that you free to act however you please under my command! And you!” He rounded on Athos, his face growing steadily redder. “I never should have you let come at all, you damn fool. What training did you receive that told you that fighting amongst ourselves was acceptable?”

Athos did not react, keeping his aloof mask firmly in place. Thankfully, D’Artagnan also kept his silence save for a swallow. Treville pointed at the damaged tents sternly.

“You will remove your belongings from your tents and they will be temporarily taken up by the men whose tents were destroyed in this debacle. You will then work together under supervision in repairing the damage you have caused here and then you shall also be partners aboard the ships. When you are not in the air, you will also maintain this campfire for the next week without the help of your servant, cooking for and serving any man who should come here. If I hear that one of you has be derelict in any of these duties, I will have you both stripped of your commissions and chased from this camp. You are dismissed.” Treville left and silence reigned for several moments until everyone was sure the captain was far enough away. Then the soldiers broke off into chattering groups, occasionally shooting glances at their two fellows still standing there stiffly side by side. Porthos, who was wary, and Aramis, who was muttering under his breath, were the only ones who were willing to approach the pair, coming up on either side of them and starting to guide them away.

"I hope you are satisfied with yourselves," said Aramis with a cold look. Athos said nothing but reached over and grasped D'Artagnan's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, and D'Artagnan offered him a brief smile in return. When they came to a junction in the rows of tents, Aramis went off with D'Artagnan to his tent, likely to examine him, and Porthos accompanied Athos on to his own.

"Are we all friends again or are you going to try to kill the boy properly next time?" asked Porthos, butting his elbow against Athos's arm. Athos flinched and took a step away from the man to avoid any further jabs.

"I think we have resolved the issue," he replied. "Would you find Planchet for me? He is never around when you need him."

"Sure, but what for? Did Treville not say that you have to do this work without him?"

"I want to send a letter to Paris." Athos did not see the smirk that crossed Porthos's face, but it was hard to ignore his bellow of a laugh at his expense as Porthos left to seek out the missing man. Athos shook his head, entered his tent, and began to gather his belongings. He verified that his letter had dried, folded it into a tight square and wrote its recipient on it, tucking it into the back of his glove so as not to lose it as he slung his saddlebags up around his shoulder and picked up his valise to carry them outside. Porthos arrived as Athos was setting down his valise, holding Planchet by the back of his doublet collar and forcing him forward.

"Found him with a few other servants around a fire nearby," stated Porthos, releasing the grumbling man in front of Athos.

"Because everyone likes to be pulled around like some idiot horse."

"Shut up, Planchet," said Athos without looking at the pair.

"Yes sir," came the resigned reply and the grumbling stopped. Athos faced the paunchy man whose beret was askew and blond flyaway hair half in his florid face. He withdrew the letter from his glove and held it out to him.

"I want you to deliver this to Orianne in Paris."

"With what money?" he asked tentatively. "The travel is long and it's cold. Am I supposed to sleep outside again?" Athos glared at him and Planchet squeezed his lips together as if forcing back further words. He pulled his shabby hat from his head and gripped it in his hands.

“You will take this letter to Paris without any more of your complaints,” said Athos, shaking the letter at him slightly. “I will give you a small amount of gold, enough to take you to and from the city without indulging or lazing about and you will leave immediately after seeing whether Porthos, Aramis or D’Artagnan have anything else for you to take with you as well. I will expect you back with a response within the week.”

“Yes sir,” muttered Planchet. Porthos clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him away, already proclaiming his own instructions about a delivery to his ‘duchess’ in the city. Athos shook his head, slung his saddlebags back over his shoulders, picked up his valise, and headed for the campfire and damaged tents.

 

***

"Fresh bread! Baked this morning, 2 sous a loaf!"

"New fish, get it before we sell it all!"

"Chickens, freshly plucked or pluck them yourself! Rabbits with their skins!"

The market near the Luxembourg was a bustle of movement and noise, merchants shouting over each other to be heard as they hocked their wares. Little children ran between the crowds, chasing each other, chasing dropped coins, bumping into the people around them without care. Servants carrying baskets loaded them with ingredients for their masters' meals, poor mothers bartered for the harder crusts of bread, and young tradesmen hurried through on their way to apprenticeships.

"Hold tight to me now," said Orianne to Thérèse, who looked up at her with wide, nervous eyes, gripping tightly to the woman's skirt with her small hand. She smiled down at the child and patted her blond curls gently then began to guide both of them into the masses, trying to quell her trembling.

Before the musketeers had left the city, Roderic had paid his sister a rare visit. He told her about his promotion, she begged him to try on his new uniform for her, and the conversation was unfortunately stilted otherwise. She described some her activities in the Court and showed him her newest lace designs, but he had such an air of disinterest that she stopped trying and they fell into awkward silence.

_“I need you to do something for me while I am away at war.” She looked up at him in surprise, setting down her bobbins near the lace pillow._

_“Roderic, you can ask me anything.” He nodded at her, but did not smile._

_“I want you to live in my lodging and look after it for me. I do not trust my landlord to give it back to me when I return and if you were to live there, he would not be able to rent it to another.” She blinked at him in surprise and wrung her hands, unconsciously twitching the ring on her left annulary finger._

_“Is it safe?” she asked nervously, glancing to the other end of the table at little Thérèse who was watching the pair of them quietly with a doll grasped in one arm._

_“Certainly. I would never put you at risk in such a manner, dear sister.” He approached her and took her hands, stroking her knuckles with his thumbs. He smiled at her and she relaxed, starting to smile back when his finger touched the ring and his expression darkened so suddenly she gasped._

_“Roderic--” He jerked his hands away as if burned and took two steps back._

_“I will take you to my lodging in half an hour. Gather your things.”_

_“But will you not be late for the parade?” Roderic turned and walked away without looking back._

It had taken effort on her part to convince the man to let her bring along Thérèse and he seemed to get more annoyed with the idea that she had taken responsibility for the child than he had been when he had left her. It had not helped when Constance had come along with a repair needed by the Queen and had involved herself in the debate.

_“Orianne, you are not this child’s mother! If she was rescued by that man then let him be responsible for her welfare.”_

_“Roderic, please! I love Thérèse and I have been caring for her since I was brought to the Court. She is now mine to look after just as you cared for me.”_

_“You are my sister. There is a difference between caring for family and caring for some stranger’s bastard child!”_

_“Excuse me.” They both looked at the open door and Constance was standing there with a cold look directed at Roderic. Thérèse saw her, gave a happy cry, and hopped down from her chair to run over to her._

_“There Orianne, do you see this? Leave the girl here. She has people to care for her.”_

_“Monsieur, I am one of the Queen’s ladies,” interrupted Constance sharply. “And the woman you are mistreating in such a manner is under Her Majesty's employ as well. You have no right to order her from the palace.”_

_“Madame, I am her brother,” he barked. “Therefore until she should marry, she is mine to look after.” Yet she ignored him and came over to stand next to Orianne, bringing Thérèse along with her. Facing Roderic, she said:_

_"Orianne wants to continue looking after Thérèse, which is very noble of her since she is not her child. Monsieur Athos has also been involved in the child's care and as he is her intended then I should say his opinion on the matter may vastly outweigh yours, Monsieur."_

_"I will not be forced to provide for another's act of mercy!" declared Roderic furiously._

_"If she does not come with you then she will have to attend a convent here in the city until Monsieur Athos's return."_

_"She will come with me," said Orianne suddenly, her jaw set as she remembered the stories her brother recounted to her about his time of abandonment. "I will look after myself Roderic; you do not have to worry for me. Constance," she touched the blond woman's arm lightly with her fingertips. "Would you please tell Her Majesty that I must leave but will continue to serve her any way she wishes?"_

_Constance gave a sigh that came out as more of a huff and nodded slowly._

_"I will bring her your message though I suspect she will not be pleased with this development. Before I do so however, I will accompany you to your new dwelling so that I may send someone with any work requests or bring them to you myself."_

Since then, Orianne and Thérèse lived together in a one room appartment on the third floor that consisted of a bed with thin coverings tucked into a corner and which they shared, a wardrobe, a table with a bench, and some pewter plates and cups. Orianne continued to ply her trade as a lacemaker, taking on additional sewing tasks for neighbours to supplement requests from the Court, which came with less frequency than before due to her new residence. Constance, surprisingly, had been bringing most of the requests from the ladies and the Queen instead of sending servants and occasionally stayed longer to spend time with Thérèse.

Orianne drew her purse from the hidden pocket in her skirt folds after selecting some of the end of season apples and gave the coins to the woman at the cart then moved on. She then bought a wheel of white cheese, some potatoes and carrots, and a chicken, which she tied to the handle of her basket by the rope with which it had been strung up, and looked down to check on Thérèse, who was no longer next to her.

“Thérèse?” Fear shot through her hot and fierce. She spun around, striking someone with the feathery carcass as she turned about. There were too many people, too much movement; seeing the little girl through the crowded legs and bundles of skirts would be impossible. She shoved aside two men in her haste, who cursed at her and pushed her into a group of women standing at the bread cart.

“Forgive me, mesdames!” she cried, pushing her way out of them, using the back of one woman as leverage. “Thérèse!” It had only been a little more than a week; she could not afford to lose her when she had sworn to care for her like she was her own.

“Maman!” Orianne turned, hearing the voice, and fought her way through the crowd. However, when she arrived, it was not Thérèse, but instead another’s little daughter trying to show her mother a trinket she wanted. Shaking from head to toe, Orianne allowed herself to be numbly pulled by the crowd leaving the marketplace then ducked off into the next street over and began to head back up the narrow street towards her lodging, tears beginning to fall down her cheeks. How would she ever explain to Constance about her folly? How would she tell Athos that she had lost his charge?

Looking down at her basket, she miserably observed that she had lost her cheese, imagining it being trampled underfoot. She checked the chicken she carried over her shoulder and found it looking as battered as she felt, and wholly unappetizing. Her feet led her back to the lodging, being nudged around by the impatient populace, and up the stairs.

    “Ori, found you!” She gasped as Thérèse ran foward into the front of her skirt, gripping the folds in her fists and looking up at her with a smile. Her eyes were reddened, as if she had been crying, and there were dirty smudges on her face, but she seemed unharmed overall.

    “Are you sure you can manage this?” Orianne looked to see Constance seated on the tiny stool near the door, the one she would use to hold her basket while she dug out the large heavy keyring from her pocket. Constance’s green, billowing skirts pooled around her feet and bunched up where they met the floor, obscuring the stool in its entirety. Her blond hair was unbraided and unadorned today, falling liberally around her face in tight waves, and she held a book in her hands. Her white hands turned slowly turned to the next page before she closed it and looked up to scrutinize the younger woman, who had scooped up the happy little girl and was embracing her tightly.

    “You have a letter.” Constance waved to the man across from her when Orianne finally looked away from examining Thérèse. He was taking up the rest of the space in the narrow corridor, mopping his forehead with his beret.

    “Monsieur Planchet! How are you? Oh let me unlock the door and get both of you inside.” Orianne struggled for her key until Planchet took the basket and the chicken from her and Constance took Thérèse in order to set her back on the ground then unlatched the door quickly and stepped back to let the pair pass. Planchet set the basket on the table and Thérèse immediately clambered up onto the bench to peek inside as he lay the trussed-up chicken beside it.

    “No cheese?” she asked, looking at Orianne sadly.

    “She likely did not get any because you scared her by wandering away!” scolded Constance as she took the space on the bench next to curious child.

    “Actually, I lost it while looking for her,” muttered Orianne.

    “It is the same thing,” replied Constance, waving off the mild protest and turning back to Thérèse. “Now you must apologize and promise you will not do it again.” Thérèse moved from sitting on her knees to sitting on her bottom, her feet dangling in the air between the bench and the floor. She watched them swing sadly for several moments.

    “I know she is sorry,” said Orianne. “She does not need to say it, Constance.” Constance shook her head disapprovingly, but said nothing.

    “You are her caretaker Orianne. Planchet, was it?” The rotund man jumped a little at being spoken to so suddenly, having remained unnoticed at the end of the table.

    “Yes, Mademoiselle.”

    “You told me you had brought letters from La Rochelle.”

    “Yes. I apologize, I didn’t mean to pull you out of the palace.” He removed two letters from where he had them tucked away in his doublet and offered one to Orianne and the other to Constance, much to her surprise and evident pleasure if the blush that rose in her cheeks was any indication. There was silence as the two women read and Planchet lifted Thérèse into his lap so he could sit on the bench.  

    “Seems odd though that Monsieur didn’t tell me where to find you,” mentioned Planchet, glancing at Orianne who focused on her letter with a furrowed brow, but unmoving eyes.

    “I believe she did not inform her intended about her change of location. Monsieur Athos likely expected her to remain at the palace, where it would be safest,” remarked Constance, who had already refolded her letter and slipped it into the front of her bodice, her cheeks still tinged red.

    “Well, it’s not all as safe as that,” said Planchet, despite the sharp look from the Queen’s lady. “I mean, the nobles are always making plans, trying to outdo and humiliate one another. Mademoiselle is a bit too nice for that and--”

    “Shut up, Planchet,” hissed Constance. Thérèse watched them quietly from her spot, head looking up at the man then down at the woman as they spoke. It was the most activity that had happened in some time.

    “Constance, please, let him speak. Continue Monsieur Planchet,” said Orianne, refocusing on the parchment in her hand.

    “No, no, that was all I wanted to say,” he said with a wary smile. “But, you see Mademoiselle, she is too nice for the Court.”

    “However, she should at least inform Monsieur Athos as to where she is residing,” Constance retorted. Orianne sighed, set aside the open letter, and rubbed circles on her temples with her fingers.

    “Constance, he is at war and if he is worried about me then he will be distracted. I do not want him to be hurt because of me.”

    “You underestimate him, Orianne. He is a hardened soldier. Knowing where you are will not be anything for him over which to fret. Tell her, Planchet.” The servant sighed, plopping his crumpled hat on top of Thérèse’s head, and ruffled his hair.

    “Well, you are both right, I guess. He would worry, sure, but I think he’d rather know.” Orianne sighed and flopped back onto the narrow bed.

    “Then I suppose I will write him back if only to please you both. I would hate to bother him with something like this though.”

    “Trust me,” Constance assured, smiling. “He will not be troubled at all by your telling him. Do you have any spare ink or quills? I may as well pen my own response while you complete yours. Then we can send Planchet back with both letters at once.”

 

_Dear Athos,_

_I have nev’r wrote a letter befor so I hope this one will be a good start. Theres is well. She is happy and likes to come with me to the market. She was lost today, but Constance found her and brought her back. We live in the Lucsembourg. Roderique asked me to stay in his loging because he does not trust his landlord. Constance visits us when the Queen wants me to sew things._

_Please do not worry about us. I buy us food and pay the rent. Tonight we will have a chiken. I love you. Be safe._

_Orianne_

 


	35. The First Attack, The Second Escape

_My dear Orianne,_

_Thank you for your beautiful letter. I was very happy to hear from you and little Thérèse although I was shocked to learn that you had moved away from the safety of the Palais Cardinal. I will attempt to reason with your brother as he should know better than to ask you to live alone with a young child. My wish is that you return to the safety of Her Majesty’s entourage, where I know you and the little one will want for nothing._

_I am sorry this letter has been so long in coming, my love. The past two weeks have been hectic though thankfully uneventful regarding the siege. Between the instruction of our men to handle the airships and preparing for an invasion in enemy territory, we have barely had the time to rest or attend personal affairs. I have been tasked with a mission of reconnaissance of the English Navy Fleet, on the morrow, before dawn._

_I think of you and Thérèse every day God gives me and hope that we can be reunited soon. Porthos would scoff at this letter and call me a fool. He, Aramis, and d’Artagnan tell me to send you their greetings._

_I remain forever yours,_

_Athos_

 

The wind was cold and Athos rolled his shoulders against the chill that crept through his damp tent. There had been no airship training this day; the weather had forced a temporary armistice on both sides and the only soldiers out were those who were ordered to make rounds and relieve others huddling by the cannons. He laid out his leather suit on his bed roll, checked the seams for any wear after having kept it folded for so long, and then removed the metal mask from the case next to him, examining it for any deviation in its face. Satisfied that it was unblemished, he set it down and glanced at the tent folds that he had tied together in a feeble attempt to keep out the wind and wet.

He had sent Planchet to find Roderic and bring him here, only for the servant to return to tell him that the young Teuton was not to be found and musketeers in neighbouring tents thought he was on duty. Now Athos was waiting as patiently as he could muster for he had ordered Planchet to wait for Roderic's return, no matter how long it took. He needed to have words with his future brother-in-law.

"Monsieur Athos, Monsieur Roderic is here!" Planchet tried to enter and found his way blocked. Athos hurried to the folds, untied them, and sent the servant away as Roderic entered. The young man's wind-reddened face was an otherwise blank mask. His cloak and hat were soaked from the raining snow.

"I heard you have been looking for me Monsieur Athos," said Roderic as he pulled off his leather gloves and tried to remove the moisture by slapping them against his knee. HIs voice was steady and monotonous and Athos furrowed his brow thoughtfully as they regarded each other.

"Yes I did. I received a letter from Orianne with some interesting developments," began Athos. Roderic removed his hat and shook off the sleet that rested in the folds.

"Really? What sort of developments?" he asked nonchalantly as he tried to brush the ice off his feathers. Athos allowed himself a quick flash of anger then he stifled it, believing the boy's ignorance had contributed to his decision.

"She tells me that she is living on her own, with a small child no less, in your old lodging," Athos folded his arms across his chest and regarded him coldly.

"Yes, she is," said Roderic, meeting his glare unabashedly. "I am surprised she told you when neither of you saw fit to inform me of your engagement." Athos' expression did not waver, but he shifted slightly.

"I do apologize for that, it was inappropriate. But that is hardly a reason to remove her from the Palais Cardinal and the security of the Court." Roderic scoffed and started to laugh mockingly.

"The Court is no safer than anywhere else in Paris. The lot of them are heathens and plotters and you wish to leave your vulnerable fiancée alone in that poisonous place? Who’s to say that she would not be drawn into something that would hurt her there?" He took a step forward and jabbed a finger into Athos' chest. "Who's to say that another man would not appeal to her and win her from you? You should thank me for removing her!"

“How dare you,” said Athos, his voice filled with disgust. “You presume my fiancée, _your_ _sister_ , to be thus so simple-minded and without friends that she cannot survive without your interference? I wonder if how well you claim to know her is truly fact or if you are actually mad!”

“I am trying to protect her! Do you remember that we almost lost her already because of her gentleness? Because she is so simple-minded to be convinced to leave?” argued Roderic. Athos gritted his teeth and clenched his fists.

“Monsieur Athos, Monsieur de Tréville wishes to see you.” Planchet burst in and looked between Athos and Roderic in confusion. Roderic took a step back and aside, allowing Athos space to pass.

“You had best obey our Captain’s summons,” said Roderic, gesturing to Planchet dismissively.

“We will continue this discussion later,” said Athos coldly. Roderic nodded and replaced his hat on his head.

“Stay and dry a little before returning to your tent. We may disagree, but we are still soon to be family,” said Athos, grabbing his own hat and striding out immediately afterwards, missing the narrow-eyed glare Roderic shot at his back. The wind almost whipped it from his hand as he pressed it to his skull and bowed against the cold, gusting sleet with Planchet trailing after him, swearing against the weather and the English. The sun was setting fast as the clouds became blacker above them and the snap of the sails from the landed airships resounded over the camp.

“Planchet, go back and get to shelter. There is no need for you to wait.” The servant bustled off without complaint as Athos approached a large brocade tent guarded by two musketeers hunched around their halberds and they nodded to him as he passed into the shelter. The ground had been covered with an ornate rug and the round-bottomed skeleton-like chairs had been unfolded and set up around a table, which was littered with a map, metal figures, and quill pens. Tréville was seated at a spindly portable desk, squinting in the flickering candlelight as he caught up on his missives.

“You summoned me Monsieur?” Athos asked, facing the Captain and standing at attention in the middle of the tent. Tréville glanced up at Athos briefly then returned his attention to his papers.

“I did, Athos. I wanted to make sure that you felt ready to complete your task.” Tréville set aside his quill, folded his fingers together, and rested his chin atop them to gaze silently at the man.

“There is no reason why I should not be able to do my duty, Monsieur,” stated Athos, narrowing his eyes slightly at the man.

“The last time you used your diving equipment--”

“That is no longer relevant to me,” he interrupted and Tréville straightened with a frown.

“I want you focused Athos, for your sake as well as for your future. I do not want to have to send a message to Paris telling your fiancée that she is a widow before she is even a wife, understand?”

“I assure you that I do not want that either Monsieur.”

“Good. Get some rest, if you can, what with this damned weather. Remember, you are expected to have begun by dawn.”

“Yes Monsieur. Good evening.” Tréville nodded to him and returned his attention to the papers. Athos bowed and left the tent, hunching his shoulders against the wet, miserable night. He nodded to the guards, who did not respond this time, and set out into the camp, staggering occasionally as he was buffeted by the wind. It was quicker to return to his tent with the wind at his back pushing him along, and he ducked inside gratefully. Neither Roderic nor Planchet was there. Athos quickly shed his hat and cloak and began to shake the sticky snow out of them, trying to remove the dampness so it would not ruin either the felt or the wool. He laid them aside after a few moments before preparing his bedroll and lying down to rest. Plagued by the whistling wind, it took some time for him to fall asleep. By the time he had, it felt as if his internal clock was just waking him up again. However, the wind and presumably the sleet had stopped by then, and he gathered his equipment, bundling it in a cloth roll that he could strap to his horse and shouldering his mechanical crossbows, and quickly left his tent. The sky was still dark, but patches of stars appeared through the occasional parting of the clouds. The sleet had changed to snow while he had slept and a light covering of white coated the ground, some of it already packed down by passing boots of guardsmen and musketeers changing shifts.

It was madness to begin a war so close to winter. It meant the hardships of little food and plenty of cold alongside the distance from the comforts of hearth and home. Yet, no one was expecting to be here all that long what with the doubled power of Richelieu’s airships. Athos smiled dourly as he marched towards the makeshift stable that had been set up. In placing so much hope on Richelieu’s improvements, everyone was forgetting that the English still had much more firepower than them. How well the new ships would withstand a barrage of attacks from multiple targets remained to be seen. Athos turned about the small shelter, frowning. Where the Devil was his horse?

“You did not think you would be leaving without us, did you?” Athos spun to see Porthos, Aramis, who had spoken, and D’Artagnan already mounted and waiting for him. Planchet stood nearby holding the bridle of his already saddled steed. Athos frowned and approached.

“I did not believe I was to be escorted on this mission.”

“When has that ever stopped us before?” Porthos laughed. Athos glared at him and Porthos quieted down, but was still smiling.

“Tréville will want you working with the crews now that the weather is clear,” he said sternly to the three men. D’Artagnan shrugged.

“No one will be up for a while yet.” Here he paused to yawn, seemingly having recently awakened himself. “We will be there and back before the camp knows we ever left.”

“And if it grows to be so late in the morning,” Aramis added, “then we will simply return to attend our duties. You see, Athos, there is no reason to refuse us the small favour of accompanying you.” Athos was silent. He held the gaze of each one for a minute or two then turned, strapped his bundle securely to the horse, and mounted. Nodding to Planchet, who backed off as soon as Athos was astride the beast, he turned the horse and, without a word to any of them, he spurred it into an easy trot. The others followed in equal measure until they were beyond the camp where all of them pushed their mounts into a gallop, heading towards the Cardinal’s makeshift dyke and the river’s mouth. Then they left their horses tied in a copse of trees and silently continued on foot until the first moored English ship came into sight in the distance. Athos set down his weapons and carefully unrolled his suit, separating the hood and weighted collar from the full body piece. He shoved the collar and hood towards D’Artagnan, who took them with a shake of his head and set them down gently down on the rocky beach. Aramis looked out over the water with the small telescope, examining the ships.

“It appears there is no one aboard,” he remarked.

“Good,” Athos grunted as he began to pull on the suit. “Less likely you three will be spotted standing out here like fools.”

“Us fools are probably the only people out here,” said Porthos, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself. “Damn this cold.”

“No one ordered you to come along, Porthos,” said Athos, pushing his arms into the sleeves and rolling his shoulders against the leather. Porthos snorted in derision.

“You try saying no to Aramis when he is determined to see you awake.” Athos allowed a brief smile to flicker across his features then set to work tightening the suit’s underlay with its belted straps before covering it over with the opening flap, pinning it shut with another belt about his neck. Athos extended his hand for the collar, and when it was handed over, he turned with browed raised to face D’Artagnan. The youth crossed his arms and lifted his chin, smirking defiantly, gesturing to where he had set asides the items in question.

“We do not have times for your games, boy,” Athos stated, walking over and scooping them up. He spat on the inside of the glass eyeholes and wiped them clean with his thumb before pulling on the hood and latching the collar around his neck afterwards to keep it in place.

“Ready to go under?” asked Aramis. Athos gave him a positive sign. D’Artagnan looked over the suit with suspicion and slight awe.

“Can you truly go under water in this thing?” Athos swatted his hand away as D’Artagnan plucked experimentally at the leather.

“Leave it alone, boy.” Aramis offered him his crossbows and Athos swung them over his head and across his body, testing his reach to make sure he could grab them from over his shoulders.

“Be careful,” warned the priestly musketeer. Athos nodded, turned, and began to walk into the water as one would walk along a street. When he was deep enough, he swim further from the shore then finally dove under the steely grey surface. The water was silty as the current stirred the sand and Athos only churned up more with his strokes. In the distance, he thought he could make out the bottom of one of the English boats. He was only meant to get as close as possible in order to determine their numbers, but the temptation to sabotage them was strong. However, it was too risky and would take too much time to drill holes in the bottom with any furniture maker’s tools.

He reached the first boat, pressed his hand against it and treaded water, puzzled. The suit felt off, unbalanced, weightier. He was not being pushed to the surface by the water’s demands. He could not stop to check now when he had already started the mission. Shoving aside the concern, he swam under the boat then its neighbour and the one after that, keeping track of the ones he had passed by staying close enough to shoot one of his bolts into the hull and then moving on. He began to struggle after one bow was emptied into thirty ships, his legs heavy and sluggish behind him, and it was difficult to keep his body close to the boats as it wanted to sink. Water suddenly splashed against his chin inside the suit and Athos froze.

Sabotage! This was why the suit was not working properly. He was taking on water and likely had been the whole time. He growled and turned back, keeping the bows of the boat to his right so he knew where the coast should be, and swam. The water was sloshing around his front and he closed his mouth against its sandy taste. He could not go up and walk the rest of the way; he was within the enemies’ line. If sentries spotted him, he would be shot as soon as he broke the surface. Where did he leave the others, less than a league from where the English had docked or was it a little more than that? Now that the water had found its way in, it was quickly filling in the space. Athos tilted his head back awkwardly to drain the hood so he could catch his breath, but had to hold it again when he lowered his head as the water filled in around his nose. He had no choice; he had to go up.

His arms burned as they tried to pull him through the water, dragging the extra weight pooled in his lower body. His legs were slowed as they doubly fought the push of it. When he finally broke through, he blinked and turned around in confusion for several moments until he managed to spot the others clustered together further down the beach with no fire to signal their presence. He dragged himself ashore and fell on his back, the cold liquid muffling his ears to everything save his breathing echoing in his ears.

“Athos?” The man growled, annoyed that he had been discovered, and opened his eyes to D’Artagnan standing over him. “Are you alright?” Athos sat up and silently worked at removing the heavy collar and his mask. He blinked his eyes against the brightness of the world beyond the mask’s lenses and scrubbed his hand down his face tiredly, not particularly caring about the grit scratching at his skin.

“How did you get all wet?” Porthos demanded from behind him, flicking at Athos’s damp hair with large fingers. “Your wetsuit is supposed to keep you dry.” Aramis quietly offered his hand only for Athos to shove the mask and collar into them then lift himself to his feet. He was lighter now, he could tell despite the sheer sense of his own weight that came after every moment he spent long periods in the water. Most of the excess water he had carried to shore had drained out save for in his boots, which sloshed annoyingly around his calves.

“What happened?” Aramis asked. “Did you get what you needed?” Athos ignored him and fumbled with the belts and the suit, not noticing when he began to curse under his breath then those curses became louder. His friends stepped back from him so as not to get slapped with the suit or his fist as he struggled to remove his arms.

“No, Aramis, I did not! Someone has just tried to drown me in my own equipment and not even God will save them when I find them out.” Athos ripped the suit off his legs and threw it down on the beach with disgust. Then he removed one boot at a time and, with stockinged toes gripping the cold, coarse, pebbly sand, he emptied them of their watery contents at the feet of his friends and glaring all the while.

“Who would do this? Why?” asked D’Artagnan, looking to Porthos and Aramis’ grim faces for answers. But they did not respond, Porthos simply clapping the boy on his shoulder and steering him back towards the horses despite his attempted protests. Aramis made to speak, but one cold glare from Athos stopped him and, after having gathered the now useless equipment, the pair walked back together in silence.

***

“A plague on these Parisian winters,” cursed Buckingham, breathing into his gloved hands and rubbing the palms together. The fire in his grate had burned low, but he refused to stoop himself to servant’s work. Instead, he had to wait for the ugly hag who brought him meals in order to again have warmth for a short period. He glared at the doors beyond which stood his guards whose faces changed little now that the majority of the French army had left Paris for La Rochelle. How he despised the French with their horrible food and cold weather. The gardens below his windows were covered in snow occasionally stirred up into a flurry and the rare guard would pass through on patrol, bent in two against the biting wind. His glare slowly began to transform into a thoughtful expression and he tapped his fingers against his chin. An old lady was not hard to subdue and fewer guards meant fewer troubles, but those remaining would be more likely to recognize one another on sight.

Muted voices spoke outside his door and Buckingham took no time for further consideration. He remained within sight of the door, for they would not let the woman enter without having him in view, and the door was left slightly open to hear anything within. She hobbled in crookedly, lilting to one side, and bearing his tray. He eyed the pewter tureen with a malevolent gleam and resisted the urge to smile. Not everything that could be a weapon had to be sharp. He hated to have to bludgeon people like some commoner, but all men become beasts when desperate.

“Good day, Monsieur,” croaked the woman and Buckingham waved her towards the table without a word, as was typical of their interaction. She really was a horrid sight, spotted with pitted scarring from a bout of pox and stringy hair escaping her poorly tied coiffe. She set the tray down with a clatter, offered him a poorly done curtsey, and turned to leave. He leapt at her and wrapped his arm about her neck, lifting the poor widow off her feet as she weakly clawed at his arm.

“Hush now, Madame, you should lie down and rest,” he whispered as her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell limp against him. He lowered her to the ground, calling out:

“Come quick, Messieurs! The widow has fainted!” The guards entered, one drawing his sword and pointing at him, backing him towards the table as the other knelt next to the woman on the floor. Buckingham put on his most charming smile as he checked the contents of the tureen, a roasted duck swimming in greasy broth, and watched the armed guard from the corner of his eye. He was distracted, glancing between him and his comrade on the floor. They muttered to each other about her condition, scorning woman’s innate weakness as they endeavoured to determine what they should do. Buckingham took the tureen in both hands and left the lid aside on the tray. He waited until just the moment when the standing guardsman looked away then threw the contents at the kneeled guard and struck his comrade round the head with the supper dish. Before the other could react, Buckingham had kicked him in the head and he sprawled out backwards with knees still bent.

Throwing aside the dented tureen, he quickly divested the first guard of his clean uniform and changed into it, nose wrinkling at the stench. He took his keys, his pistols, his main-gauche, and his blade, quickly testing the balance of the last in his hand before sheathing it again. It was a little light for him, but would suffice for the moment. Donning the grey plumed hat, he swiftly left the room, making sure to shut and lock the door behind him. He looked left and right with a frown then headed left, dipping his hat to the rare guard he passed and hurrying away before they could potentially catch a glimpse at his face. It would likely not be too much longer before his guards were supposed to have changed for the night and his actions would be discovered. His boots resounded far too loudly on the marble floors and he cursed Richelieu’s decadence and Athos’s abilities for trapping him in such a situation. He gripped the pommel of his stolen blade and continued marching through the almost deserted wing of the palace until he reached the main entrance hall.

“Hey, Guillaume, are you off already?” A solitary guard called, arm in the air to wave to him as he approached. “You still owe me that drink, friend!” He clapped his arm around Buckingham’s shoulder. Then his smile quickly faded as a dribble of blood escaped from between his lips and his eyes widened with surprise as he collapsed. Buckingham wiped the main-gauche on the dying man’s uniform, leapt over his body, and passed through the door into the open air. _Freedom, at last!_


	36. English Comet Disaster

Aramis inhaled deeply as he stared at the horizon. The air was clear and chilly and burned his lungs, but it sharpened his nerves. It made him feel so very alive when there was little more than the constant shadow of death. The airship creaked around him and tremored slightly when the cannonballs dented the thick hull and their cannons responded with their own volley. He turned to watch the enemy ship being ripped apart by the assault, splinters flying as the wood exploded on impact and English soldiers diving away to save their own skins. Aramis muttered a prayer for forgiveness under his breath, fingering his rosary, observing the offending ship as it tried to chart a new course through the clouds and escape. 

"Hard to port! Ready the cannons!" He ordered as he returned to the helm where D'Artagnan had been holding the ship steady. The Gascon stepped aside, knowing his place as a first mate, and mounted a crate to compensate for his short field of view. 

"Raise the starboard wings!" D'Artagnan called, directing several men to pull up the rudder sails on the right side so the great machine would be turned by the wind and continue their pursuit of the staggering vessel. Aramis spun the wheel and felt a thrill as the massive ship turned so smoothly through the sky, the prow aligning with their prey. D’Artagnan called to lower the sails and the few front facing cannons protruding from alongside the boat’s maidenhead fired at the ship’s back, shattering the blocky cabin space. 

“Aramis!” D’Artagnan was pointing to their right, beyond them, and Aramis turned in time to see another English ship coming in to ram them just before the impact threw everyone off their feet. The hulls crunched together with a sound like a breaking bone, some ropes holding the air sack snapped, and cries from the French soldiers crushed by the second ship extending from their own rent the air. Englishmen slid down their slanted deck and made leaps over the prow with their momentum to board the French ship. The shock of it kept the soldiers slow until their enemy punctured them with sharp steel and hot iron balls and then the fight began. Aramis dove back from the helm as a soldier in blue turned the flamethrower towards him and tried to set him alight. The wheel caught and went up quickly, the flames licking viciously down its base to the deck beneath it. The attacking ship’s continued force pushed them even more to the left and tilted them dangerously. The English had over calculated their strike. Frenchmen and Englishmen were falling past him, screaming in terror as they tumbled out of sight, and Aramis grabbed at anything that might save him. His fingers caught the handle of the door leading into the hold, the metal ring slippery with mist under his grip. 

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis called the first name that came to mind in this disaster. He could see nothing above him with the wooden door in his face. While not disturbed by extreme heights, he dared not look down to see what awaited him when his fingers could no longer sustain him. He spotted the young man across the deck and crouched against the side of the short stairs leading up to the fiery helm. D’Artagnan looked up from where he had been staring down into the cloud-filled abyss below them, having heard his friend’s yell, and they watched each other helplessly. Then D’Artagnan somehow managed to get to his feet on the very narrow space and seemed to be bracing himself, measuring the distance between Aramis’ door and his own position. Aramis’ eyes widened and he started to order him to stay where he was, but D’Artagnan was already in the air with arms outstretched towards the wood and determination on his face. His fingers caught the door’s edge and he swung there for a moment or two with nails digging furiously into the wood before he began to struggle to climb up. 

“Hold on a little longer Aramis,” he gasped, “I will pull you up.” Aramis wanted to berate his foolishly stupid risk, but that would mean disillusioning him. The ships were falling from the sky like a rock, the air sacks the only thing barely slowing them, and D’Artagnan was far too light compared to Aramis to consider lifting him to safety. Aramis looked down. At least if he fell, he would pass right through the opening in the railing rather than hitting it and suffering injury on his way to his demise. 

“Grab on, Aramis, quickly!” A rope dangled an arm’s length away and Aramis stared it in surprise before realizing D’Artagnan had possibly solved their weight dilemma and snatched it. With the wind tugging at him and the ground now becoming visible below him through the clouds, he began to drag himself up the rope. Even with his gloves, his hands were numb with cold and if he could not see for himself that they were grasping the rope, he would swear they were no longer a part of him. He was almost to the edge of the portal’s frame and he felt D’Artagnan grabbing at him, taking hold of his doublet and helping drag him over the edge into relative safety. The locked ships fell faster, the wind whistling shrilly. Aramis gripped the wall and the floor, unable to tell if it was him who shook or if it was only the ship’s quaking body. He braced his feet against the opposite wall. There was a loud crunch. The ships impacted into the ground and skidded. Shouts rang out below them. D’Artagnan was yelling something, or was perhaps just yelling across from him, his eyes squeezed shut. The wreckage stopped moving, creaking and groaning like a wounded animal. Aramis sat very still for a moment or two to make sure that they had stopped moving before he leaned carefully out the door and peered down to the ground that was a relatively short distance below them. 

“D’Artagnan, open your eyes boy.” He reached over to shake his knee. D’Artagnan opened one eye and regarded Aramis with skepticism. 

“Why is it we always destroy these things?” Aramis stared at him before he began to shake with laughter, leaning back and resting his head against the wood. D’Artagnan began to laugh along with him and the two guffawed like madmen in their imploded vessel. Whether it was to quell the fear of shortly escaped death neither knew nor cared. Aramis glanced back out through the doorway with streaming eyes and caught sight of the rallying Rochelois troops below them along with a partially demolished bastion, the only thing that had kept them from sliding further and possibly into the sea.

“If we sit here much longer, we will become war prisoners,” said Aramis, his chuckles slowly dying down. D’Artagnan peered out of the opening, wiping at his eyes with the back of a hand. 

“Then shall we be off?” he asked, flashing the other musketeer a mischievous smile. Aramis led the way, taking hold of the rope that had saved his life and sliding down along its length, thankful for the thick leather of his gloves. Reaching the end, he gauged the distance and aimed to land on what appeared to be a crumbled, but stable portion of the wall, releasing the rope and dropping to the ground. He moved aside as D’Artagnan quickly followed him, grabbed the boy by his back before he fell clumsily from his landing, and they carefully yet quickly starting picking their way along the remaining wall before the Protestants realized that they had King’s soldiers in their midst. 

“Release me, you heathen slime!” The shout came from behind them at the ship and Aramis glanced back, stopping just as he reached the battlements and the walkway around them. Below them, Roderic was held between two Rochelois who struggled to hold the taller man as well as their more antique muskets in their other arms’. They had likely led him out from the ship’s bowels through one of the new holes in the deck. 

“D’Artagnan, wait.” Aramis stopped the Gascon as he went to move past him and pointed in the German’s direction. D’Artagnan heaved a sigh. 

“So what do we do? Hard to escape when you attack the enemy in their own damn fortress.” 

“We will not have to attack them, just loosen their grip. Follow me.” Aramis calmly and swiftly descended the nearby set of tilting, wooden stairs and led them towards the two struggling would-be jailers. 

“Bring that one over with the others,” ordered a nearby man to the two and Aramis looked over to where several musketeers, some sporting visible injuries, were sitting on the ground in a corner, surrounded by a guard of the armed peasantry. This particular bastion appeared to have not yet had been fortified by a drop of English soldiers from one of the many airships which had been inconveniencing their efforts to swiftly end this war. While Richelieu’s dyke blockaded the waterways and the Protestants were besieged, the airways were much clearer and the English could support and supply their allies easily, thus the need for the four of them up in the skies with Richelieu’s small fleet of double-sized ships. 

“Aramis, we cannot save only one and leave all the others,” D’Artagnan hissed, gripping his sword hilt angrily. Aramis had to stop him from stepping forward to confront the guards much as he had back in Cooper’s Yard that day so many months ago. However, the boy was right. Aramis could not abandon his crew to be traded like goods or beaten like rogues, even more so when Athos may not forgive him for not keeping guard over his future brother-in-law despite their current tense undercurrents. 

“Then we join them and escape from within,” Aramis replied, “or start a revolt.” Before D’Artagnan could respond, Aramis drew his sword and lifted it high.

“Musketeers, to me!” The men behind the peasants perked up at the words and several leapt to their feet, barrelling into their captors’ backs to break free. The injured remained sitting or were slowly trying to stand and little could be done for them at present. Aramis was quick to note that their hands of the hale ones had been bound, but luckily enough not their feet. 

“Stop that man!” ordered the local sergeant and Aramis turned to face the oncoming attack from the ill-trained civilian soldiers. D’Artagnan sprinted for their fellows, cutting their bonds and assisting them in disarming their guards and rearming themselves. Aramis was joined by five angry men and surrounded by many more irate enemies. Cooper’s Yard came back to him in a flash, but now was not the time for memories. He charged the Rochelois with naked sword and met them with steel against steel, driving the hilt into their bellies and silencing them with quick slices across their throats. One leapt on his back and his knees briefly buckled from the extra weight. He staggered, trying to fend off the attacker and keep him from reaching his neck with his dagger. Others began to press him, seeing him struggle, and Aramis backed away, swinging his sword in wide arcs before him to keep them at bay. 

“Aramis!” A flash of steel from behind his attackers and several crumpled with pained yowls, reaching for the back of their legs where the rear side of the knee joints had been sliced open. D’Artagnan leapt over them and spun to face other attackers, but they seemed to be keeping their distance from all of the musketeers save the one Aramis grappled with on his back. Finally, Aramis was able to flip the man over his head and slam him back first into the ground where he continued to lay, thoroughly winded. 

“Keep in a circle,” Aramis ordered as the five of them crept sideways like some strange crab, backs to each other and swords out. They broke briefly to envelop Roderic, who was bracing one of the injured soldiers so he could stand, and they left as a group at the pace of their limping comrade. Upon clearing the bastion’s entrance, the rapports of several muskets sounded, two men fell dead from their circle, and the others scattered in wild sprints for their camp. D’Artagnan shouldered the other side of the injured guard and he and Roderic tried to speed him along only for him to give a choking cough. Roderic immediately flinched away and dropped him, his face streaked with the spat blood from the now deceased soldier. Aramis came up behind them and pushed them both forward, almost making them fall, and the three tore off in the direction of a closer copse of trees rather than risk the travel across the battlefield. Hidden amongst the trunks, they stopped briefly enough to catch their breath, bent in double with hands on their knees or leaning against the wood. Then they continued along the roundabout route to the back of the King’s camp with ears strained for any suspicious sound and no words shared. Upon arrival, Aramis and D’Artagnan parted ways with Roderic, who resisted Aramis’ attempts to examine him and assured them both that he was unharmed save for a few likely cuts and bruises. Neither took note of his tightly clenched fists nor how tense his voice sounded as he bid them ‘au revoir’ and they walked back to D’Artagnan’s tent. 

“Aramis, what is it?” D’Artagnan palmed a hand through his own brown locks tiredly. “I know this was an undeniable disaster and we lost good men, but I am sure those who ran made it back.” Aramis shook his head, cross his arms over his chest and walked on with a thoughtfully, furrowed brow. D’Artagnan kept pace with him, shooting him curious and concerned looks as he remained as mute as a statue. They arrived at his tent and noticed a sealed wooden box left by his bedroll and valise. There was a letter on top with his name written in pretty, flowing hand and the Gascon went pink to his ears, snatching up the letter and tucking it away. 

“D’Artagnan, did you notice any of our fellows acting odd on the ship?” Aramis asked suddenly, startling the boy. D’Artagnan stared at him. 

“What do you mean by odd? There were some who were uncomfortable with flying, I suppose, and a couple who took ill—“

“No, that is not it. I mean anyone who looked or acted out of place, awkward, ill-belonging.” D’Artagnan thought for moment, sitting on his mystery crate and trying to remember anyone as Aramis described, then gave an apologetic shrug. 

“With all that happened, I can’t remember much right now, Aramis.” Aramis nodded pensively, reaching up and rubbing his chin with his forefinger and thumb. 

“What are you thinking, Aramis? The same person who ruined Athos’ gear tried to blow up the ship? It was the English who we fought!” 

“No, D’Artagnan, but the English did not turn the flamethrower on me and try to roast me while they wore a blue tabard,” stated Aramis quietly, peering out suspiciously between the closed tent folds before turning back to his young friend. 

“I am starting to believe we may have blatant targets on our backs.” 

“Well, that’s no surprise!” exclaimed D’Artagnan. “The Cardinal—“

“Richelieu can be much more subtle that this and certainly more political.” Aramis went to continue, but they were interrupted by the arrival of their two rather windblown friends. 

“You two all right?” Porthos asked, squeezing Aramis’ shoulder in a brief demonstration of concern as he was closer to their entrance. Aramis nodded and gestured over to D’Artagnan. 

“You gentleman are just in time. We were discussing who may be trying to murder us in the most inconspicuous ways possible.” 

“What happened?” asked Athos, regarding him sternly as if daring him to evade details. 

“Aramis says that one of the musketeers on the ship with us turned the flamethrower on him in the midst of the English attack,” said D’Artagnan. “I did not see a thing, but I was a bit little occupied at the time.” Athos looked Aramis up and down to gauge for himself that the younger man was unharmed from the attack then nodded to himself.   
“So it seems we have a would-be assassin in the ranks,” he said lowly, eyes darting around to check for odd shadows showing against the tent cloth. “Aramis, you are certain it was someone with a musketeer’s uniform?” 

“Absolutely,” said Aramis coldly. “D’Artagnan, you mentioned the Cardinal before Athos and Porthos arrived—“ 

“Yes, and you said the attacks were too obvious to be him!” interrupted the boy. 

“However, you may be partially right in thinking as you did. The Cardinal has an issue with us; he may have bought off one or more of the men.” All three turned to Athos at this point as he finished his voiced thought. 

“We cannot just go to Tréville and tell him that there’s a traitor in the ranks,” growled Porthos, “Not without any proof to give him.” 

“This traitor is our business, not the captain’s,” stated Athos. “Provided they do not kill any other men when trying to dispose of us, we should try to solve this problem ourselves and keep others’ involvement to as little as possible. Agreed?” The other three Inseparables shared a brief look of consideration with each other before they nodded in acquiescence. 

“For now, we keep our eyes and our ears open for anything that may lead us to this man or men,” said Aramis. “We do not confront them alone.” Here he looked directly at D’Artagnan, who looked away, then continued: “We will confront them together and discover what they hold against us.” 

“And if they’re working for the Cardinal,” reminded Porthos. “And if they are then we give them to Tréville, confession and all.” 

“And if they’re not?” asked D’Artagnan quietly, looking between his three mentors. The silence they refused to break was more than enough to answer his question and he lowered his gaze to the ground.


	37. Surprises & Silver Linings

"This way, Monsieur de Lorme, she is here." Constance directed the middle-aged man into the sitting room where the Queen and her ladies had been spending a pleasant afternoon reading until an unforeseen incident had driven them to take a turn in the Cardinal's gardens. Orianne lay unconscious, peaked and pale, upon the chaise where the Queen had once sat not moments before and where she had been placed by servants. Anne had ordered the King's doctor summoned and then withdrew with the chattering courtiers and young Thérèse to give the man room to work and the girl space to breathe. She had bid Constance to wait with her and inform her of the lace weaver's condition after the doctor had conducted his examination. Constance frowned, watching her young friend's still face and steady breathing, her skin marked by purplish grey circles from long nights of work under her eyes.

"What occurred here?" asked de Lorme, setting down his tools on the little table beside the chaise seat. Constance looked away and turned to him instead.

"She was sitting over by the window so she would have light for her lace work. Her Majesty invited her here to complete an order and asked her to bring her little charge to visit. When servants brought a little food and wine for The Queen and her ladies, I turned to offer her some and that is when we noticed that she had at some point fainted." De Lorme nodded and removed his gloves to feel for her pulse. Finding it steady and her skin warmly flushed, he frowned.

"Mademoiselle, I am going to wake her with salts. Send for a servant girl and have her stripped to her chemise so I may examine her fully." Constance nodded and went into the hall to catch a passing servant while de Lorme removed a phial from his pocket, removed the cork, and waved it gently under her nose. It wrinkled and her head jerked away from the stench, eyes half opening and looking at him in confusion.

"Welcome back, Mademoiselle," said de Lorme, recorking the phial and storing it. "Do you remember where you are?" Orianne pushed herself up to a half-sitting position.

"I was with the Queen." De Lorme nodded.

"Yes, that's right." The door opened and Constance returned with another young woman. The doctor stood and stepped away, turning to face her.

"I will wait outside while you prepare her, Mademoiselle." He took his leave, shutting the door behind him, and Constance approached.

"Let us get you out of that dress, Orianne," she said with a smile. Orianne sat up fully and stared at her.

"What for, Constance? Who was that man and why was he touching me?" She was scared, even perhaps near tears with her mind unable to recall the last few moments. Constance sat down next to her and took her hand gently between her own.

"Orianne, you fainted," she explained calmly, smiling. "Monsieur de Lorme is the King's doctor and the Queen summoned him to examine you. Now please, let us remove this dress." Constance helped her to her feet, though she was very steady, and the servant stepped forward to begin undressing her, but Orianne shied away.

"I can do it myself," she stated firmly. The servant looked confused, glancing at Constance unsurely, but the Queen's lady-in-waiting nodded and sent her off. Orianne allowed Constance to untie the back laces, quickly shed the dress's outer layer, and began to attack the slight double layer of skirts, which she wore as it was only early spring and there was still a chill, as well as the front-laced corset. She draped them over the back of the chaise and stood awkwardly in her thick chemise as Constance looked at her strangely. She opened her mouth to speak when a knock sounded at the door and she instead had to allow the doctor to enter. De Lorme had her lie down and Constance watched as he palpitated her, feeling with firm fingers down her body from neck to middle and stopped just below her waist, which was rather swollen-looking. He frowned, felt around her lower stomach a little more and then shook his head, chuckling.

"Mademoiselle, forgive my frankness, but do you recall the last time you bled?" Orianne blushed deeply and Constance felt her own eyes grow wide. She had gotten more familiar with the young woman over the months, even exchanging Christmas gifts with her at her insistence in favour of the German tradition, but there could be little chance that she had-

"Not since the King's musketeers left," she mumbled down towards her folded hands. Constance looked down at her stomach, feeling hers dropping like a stone. How had she missed it? How had she missed this frank-faced, naive young woman getting sick over smells and taking out her clothes to make space for her growing figure?

"Then Mademoiselle, if he is a soldier, and I believe I can guess which one, I wish you both congratulations. You are fairly far along and should be stable for the rest of it. Just be sure to get some sleep." She nodded mutely as he bid adieu to Constance and left with his unused instruments in hand. Constance returned to the seat next to her, but Orianne refused to meet her eyes.

"Were you ever going to tell anyone?" Constance asked accusingly. "Were you even going to tell him?" She ignored her, standing and taking hold of her skirts with a trembling hand. It was out now; she could no longer hide.

"I did not want him to worry more," she replied quietly, slowing tying the skirts around her thickened, bulged waist. Constance stood and grabbed the other woman's hands, stopping her from reaching for the overdress.

"Orianne, that is ridiculous and you know it. You must write him at once. You cannot keep this from him." Orianne stared at her, sad-eyed and pale.

"Do you think Monsieur D'Artagnan would forgive himself if you called him back and his friends were hurt while he was gone?" she asked quietly, staring steadily at the lady-in-waiting. Constance could not hold her gaze and released her, stepping back with a frown. There was a moment of silence between them save for the rustling of fabric as she dressed.

"Orianne, war is an ugly, dangerous business. Every soldier knows the risks they take stepping onto that field, the musketeers especially as the King's Elite. You two are not even married yet. There will be nothing that could be done for yourself, Thérèse or this child if Athos were to die without knowing, without you making it known." Constance stepped forward to rest a hand on her arm. "Please, consider at least their future safety if you will not consider your present one worth telling him about."

"I will, Constance, if you will give me time." Constance bit her lip reluctantly, but her friend's sadly pleading expression dissuaded her from further argument. She nodded and Orianne hugged her from the side, smiling.

***

Roderic stared at the letter held in his hands, the sheaf shaking in his fingers. The stiff grip of the digits and the stress on the paper gave way shortly afterwards, nails puncturing the ink-scribbled facade and ripping the body apart in jagged halves. How could he have let this go so far? How could she have been so dense as to let this happen, to have become their mother?

He wanted to yell and holler and shout; strip all the flesh from that musketeer's bones one piece at a time and burn every bit of him until he was nothing more than ash. But making such noise would only draw attention and conducting such an act? It would be impossible. Besides, he had already failed with Athos and Aramis. The Cardinal was not impressed with him, with his elaborately plotted accidents, with his failure to dispose of the Inseparables, with how long it was taking to commit even a minor success. The young man felt short of breath and sat on the ground, elbows resting against his bent knees and holding his face in his hands. He was going to lose her to sin just as mother had been. He was failing. Tears slipped unbidden from his eyes and he wiped them away half-heartedly.

He was tired, exhausted even. Drained by the killing, the gore, and the blood; sapped from the plotting and the lies and the failures. Sleeping offered no respite when his vision was clouded with the dead and their wide, staring eyes. He rocked himself back and forth, gritting his teeth to stifle his whimpers and pressing his palms furiously against his eyes, hoping the blackness would block the scenes. Oh, the murders he had committed, the death he had sown, the fathers and brothers and sons whose life he had stolen without a second thought; what would become of his soul? Roderic stood, the paper fluttering to the ground, and he marched out of his tent, letting his feet carry him away blindly.

"Oy, Winterkorn! Where are you going?" Roderic waved dismissively and kept walking. He needed to drown his fears. He found his horse in the makeshift stables, mounted, turned, and kicked the beast into motion, ignoring the annoyed cries of those dodging away from the horse's hooves. The Inn of the Red Dovecote was a short distance from camp and was frequented by crowds of soldiers fairly regularly. He could safely shelter in a corner, ignored by all, and the drink would flow freely courtesy of his fellows' constant demands. He had become shamefully good at taking half full, even full cups from occupied tables, but it was better to benefit from another's sin than to sin himself.

He staked out a stool in a corner under the stairs next to a barrel upon which rested an abandoned candle. A brace of swearing broke out amongst some Swiss dragoons who were playing cards or dice. King's Musketeers and Royal Guards rubbed shoulders as their lackeys forced their way to the bar to order wine as was preferred or beer for those with less coin. Roderic, who had no lackey and still wore his blue uniform, was able to clear a path for himself amongst the bar's throng and order a tankard. He returned to his corner and his barrel, withdrawing a tiny phial from a pouch on his belt. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he leaned forward on his elbow, staring at its contents thoughtfully. It was half empty. He carefully unstopped the cork, poured a trickle into his drink and then stoppered the phial and stored it. He considered the crowd and focused on the dragoons. They appeared so deep in their cups and growing so uproariously loud he doubted they would have noticed a cannon firing into their midst. He made his way to their table, quickly swapped his tankard for one of theirs and retreated.

The soldier reached for it blindly. Roderic sipped from his grimly. Suddenly, the tavern's door swung open with a loud bang and heads turned to regard the new party – the Inseparables with Porthos in the lead bearing a crate. He set it down hard on the closest table and called to the barkeep for him to open it. A crowd gathered around the four of them curiously. Roderic's drink tasted bitter on his tongue and he glared unabashedly at the celebratory quartet, ready to blindly drown themselves in alcohol.

"Bring your glasses!" Porthos called. "There's enough wine here for everyone!" A cheer went up and the crowd expanded as thirsty soldiers bunched around with their cups, searching for the free drink. Roderic kept back, the corners of his mouth turning up as realization came over him. He took a great swallow of the beer as the corks were removed and wine flowed freely.

"To us!" called Porthos jovially.

"To the Queen!" said Aramis, smiling.

"To the King!" shouted D'Artagnan excitedly.

"To France," said Athos, raising his glass. And the crowd echoed every sentiment, some of them drinking after each one. Roderic set down his beer, sought out his hat from his corner and headed for the door.

"Stop!" Athos suddenly yelled in his strongest commanding voice. "Stop drinking!" Roderic turned around to see the musketeer lunge across the table and knock the cup from D'Artagnan's hand, sending wine flying. Roderic watched as several men staggered, gasping and falling on top of others who had already fallen and lay twitching on the floor. Porthos slowly put down his cup, staring at the carnage, and Aramis frowned into his, swirling the wine around, the boisterous mood destroyed. With fists and jaw clenched with anger at his failure, Roderic left as nervous murmurs grew in the tavern and the men were turning to look at the four musketeers. His return to camp led him to his tent to discard his uniform and then he travelled around the outside borders to where the Cardinal had set up his headquarters, welcomed by the King because there was no better tactical mind. He knew better now than to wait to announce his failures. Roderic nodded to Jussac from beneath his hat and the guardsman announced him to the Cardinal before letting him pass. Richelieu was behind his desk, tracing something on the map before him with a long, spider-like finger.

"I hope you have something worthwhile to report, Chevalier," said Richelieu without glancing up.

"I believe I do," replied Roderic, his expression cold. "Two events have occurred."

"Speak then and be brief."

"Those visiting the Red Dovecote inn appear to have been struck by a violent poison from wine brought to the establishment by the Inseparables. At least ten men from various units have died."

"Were you a witness to this treacherous act?" Richelieu looked up to see Roderic straighten with self-importance, feeding off his apparent interest.

"Yes, Your Eminence." Roderic tried not to let neither his pleasure nor his confusion at the lack of rebuke for the failure show on his face.

"And your second event?"

"My sister is with child by that damned musketeer," Roderic snarled vehemently. Richelieu raised an eyebrow.

"Such wonderful news for them both, save Monsieur Athos and his friends will now be arrested and tried as traitors to France. Your dear sister will be alone in the world, save for yourself, and will need to be provided for."

"I believe him to be unaware of this development." Richelieu sat back in his chair, folding his fingers together in front of his face to hide his smile.

"You have done very well Chevalier in bringing this to me," he said. Roderic blinked at him in surprise, but said nothing. "You will testify before the King as to what you witnessed and after those four have been sentenced for their crime, I will see you released from duty to return to Paris." Roderic bowed gratefully, hat scraping the carpet that had been thrown on the ground to reduce the chill. Richelieu stood, opened a small chest on his desk, and withdrew a weighty pouch, handing it to the young man.

"For your excellent service, Chevalier." Roderic took the offered bag, kissed Richelieu's ruby ring, and backed from the tent, bowing once more at the entrance. When he was gone, Richelieu allowed himself a victorious smile as he returned to his desk. While the bumbling guards in Paris had lost Buckingham, who was likely lost in the countryside as he struggled to reach England; this recent news had rejuvenated him. The tactical loss would be great, but others were capable of continuing the fight without the meddlesome foursome. He would only have to wait until morning.


	38. Midnight Sanity, Daylight Madness

The tavern was quiet, so quiet that you hear the steady drip, drip of wine hitting the floor from a toppled cup. Everyone stared at them, the four guilty men who had brought the poisoned wine, and mutterings began to rise from the back as the soldiers reached their sobering realizations. Athos grabbed D’Artagnan’s wrist and pulled, dragging the stunned boy towards the door, Porthos behind them carrying the half-emptied box of bottles, and Aramis covering his back until they were out into the shadowy darkness of the path. They did not bother with their horses, instead moving into the trees on foot, as far and as fast as they could manage with limited vision.

“We killed them!” D’Artagnan gasped when the four of them finally came to a stop, his face paler than normal in the faint flickers of moonlight. His hands shook; Athos could feel it in the one whose wrist he still held. The boy looked back the way they had come, likely expecting a mob of murderous and angry soldiers seeking vengeance. Porthos set down the box and kicked it bitterly. The bottles rattled like chattering sparrows, laughing at them. 

“Would’ve killed us too had we drunk any,” he said, resting hands on his hips. Aramis frowned, gripping his cross in a white-knuckled hand. 

“Another attempt?” he asked, looking at Athos. 

“We should assume so,” he replied grimly. “We need to get rid of the rest where no one else will find it.”

“Athos—“

“If we keep it, we will only look guiltier than we already do,” he barked, cutting Porthos off. “And I, for one, do not wish to be shot like a dying horse for treason.” He bent down, grabbed the box, and lifted it to his shoulder. No one saw fit to mention the irony of his words. Athos was clearly not in the mood for it. 

“We open the bottles and pour them into the ocean then,” said Aramis. “No one will drink from there.” 

“Or we fill the box with rocks and sand and sink it,” said Porthos. D’Artagnan said nothing, looking back and forth between the three of them. They turned as one and began to follow Athos, who led them through to the other side of the trees. They could see small campfires burning orange in the distance amongst the rows of tents and paused unconsciously as a group, staring. 

“What about us?” D’Artagnan finally asked, looking out at the still battlefield. “We will be dead if we go back and dead if we run.” 

“Our murderer will escape if we run,” remarked Porthos, “with no justice for those men if we don’t find who did this.” 

“First we get rid of this wine,” said Athos. “Then we worry about the rest.” They slowly picked their way across the open field, keeping low. Athos had stuffed his hat in the top of the box to keep the moonlight from shining on the glass within. They crept around the camp, ears perked for any sounds of uproar or gathering, always half expecting an uprising from their fellows, hungry for their blood. It took them a long time to reach the beach in this manner, the moon slowly rising to its peak above them, but none of them felt tired. The adrenaline would not allow them that. 

Athos unceremoniously dropped the box, removed his hat from it, and the four of them dug into the damp sand, piling it in around the bottles. When they thought it sufficiently filled, Porthos removed his boots, rolled up his breeches, picked up the box, and stepped into the water as deep as he could, and threw the box into the bay. They watched with bated breath as it floated sideways for a few moments and then breathed again when it finally sank below the waves. Porthos waded back and flopped down on the beach next to Aramis, who wordlessly returned his boots to him, then continued fondling the beads of his rosary, whispering to himself. D’Artagnan sat with his arms wrapped about his legs, peering over his shins at the black water and shivering as the adrenaline started to wear off. Athos had folded his legs and was picking randomly at the sand in front of him, excavating pebbles and throwing them into the water. They sat in silence a few moments more until Aramis finally stopped praying, tucked his cross away, and spoke. 

“So gentleman, shall we plan?” And so they did, tossing ideas back and forth, trying to find the least likely way they would be killed. 

“What if we left?” Well, that would be treason, they would be shot on sight, they could never return to Paris. Athos and D’Artagnan had too much to lose by this, though neither said anything to that effect, and Porthos and Aramis were rather fond of the city and its comforts, which Porthos voiced for them both. Besides, they were soldiers, they were men; they did not hide like cowards. 

“And if we stay?” Athos was grim about that, his mouth turned down and threw his latest find farther away from the shore. If Tréville was not forced to the arrest them for what happened at the inn, the Cardinal would do so on his terms. There was little chance word had not got to him about this incident. They would be dead before nightfall, killed by a firing squad, and be forever branded as traitors. However, if they were lucky, if Madame Fortune dared smile upon them this night, their attacker may be one of those types unwilling to have help, unwilling to let another do his work for him and would want to see them dead by his own hand. They could work his pride against him, catch him, and bring him before Tréville with a confession. 

The tide was starting to come in. The water washed up higher on the shore, nearly touching them. They stood, brushed the sand from their breeches, and began to walk back to the inn. After all, they had left their horses and if they did indeed have to run in the end, they would need all the resources they had to get as far away as possible. 

“Could Milady help us?” D’Artagnan asked suddenly and they all stopped, turning to face the boy. Porthos and Aramis’ expressions were closed off and Athos’ face tightened briefly with anger before becoming his blank mask. 

“We will not ask her, do you understand?” he said softly, his voice cold, the anger and self-loathing just hidden under the surface, something the Gascon suspected would never go away. D’Artagnan nodded and Athos reached out, squeezed his shoulder a little too hard, and then they continued walking as if nothing had passed. 

“You had good intentions,” Aramis said quietly to him on the way back, downwind from Athos and out of his hearing. “What better person to aid criminals than another criminal?” D’Artagnan’s brief smile came out more like a grimace and nothing more was said as the four picked their way through the trees again, this time tripping over roots in their too cautious, semi-tired states, until they arrived near the Red Dovecote. Miraculously, their horses were still there, untouched and unbothered. 

“Tis too good to be real,” Porthos said lowly, trying to keep his booming voice to a whisper. 

“Agreed,” said Athos. He watched the dark windows of the inn for some sign of movement, spotted none, and stepped out of the shelter of the trees in his black clothes. He crept towards two of the horses, glanced back hurriedly when he heard a scuffle of boots behind him, and glared when he saw D’Artagnan ignoring him, making his way to the other beasts to untie their reins from the post. The pair each took two horses and guided them down the road, looking back now and again to make sure that they have not been spotted. Athos noted that Porthos and Aramis had moved on, likely awaiting them further down the road where the trees thickened again and shaded the path. Indeed he was right, their friends melting out of the shadows and joining them, taking their own horses, and the four of them quietly walked in line. When D’Artagnan yawned, Porthos chuckled, but no one spoke. They came out of the trees. The camp was ahead and as still and quiet as ever. Athos halted and the others came up alongside him. 

“Do we risk it?” asked Porthos, looking around. Aramis hummed, but said nothing. 

“It seems safe enough,” said D’Artagnan hesitantly. 

“Seems safe does not mean it is,” said Athos, “but I am willing to hear other options should anyone else have one.” No one responded. 

“Then we return to camp gentleman and try to get some sleep before morning muster.” He led his horse down into the camp, trailed by his anxious friends and hiding his own anxiety. Two days passed following the massacre at the Red Dovecote. D’Artagnan had almost become a mute save for when spoken to by a commanding officer. Athos and Aramis were on edge, suspicious of all around them since their attacker had become so brazen. Porthos was angry, lashing out at others who tried to get too close to interrogate, to gossip, to accuse or to outright blame them for the murders that night for there was no other word for it. Their assassin was cunningly ruthless and hiding in their own ranks and that knowledge did not sit well with him. 

Unable to relax, they avoided their tents and did not return to that inn, no matter how windy or cold or miserable the weather became, retreating instead to the chilly dunes along the water near Richelieu’s dyke and dared not even light a fire to reveal their location. Planchet was no longer sent away to bring letters to lovers in Paris, but instead was suitably armed, if reluctantly on his part, with a pistol and knife and set on guard for them as they tried to plan and deduce and devise strategies to catch their menace. 

“This is madness,” swore Aramis, rubbing his gloved hands together then tucking them back beneath his arms away from the bitter sea air. “We are likely to lose our limbs to the frost before we ever catch this monster.” Athos was silent, but he had been little else these days. D’Artagnan had not joined them yet, having been on duty at the front. Porthos was atop a dune with the spyglass, but he had long since lost interest in watching the waves and the blockade of English ships near the Ile de Ré. 

“Man approaching!” called Planchet from his perch on another dune, rolling down behind its crest. Porthos dove into the gulley with the other two, crouched at the ready alongside Aramis with a musket each and Athos in back waiting to reload. A whistle cut the air and they relaxed, at least until D’Artagnan was diving off his horse awkwardly, forcing Porthos and Aramis to move or be hit by his flailing limbs as he rolled into their makeshift camp gasping. Planchet was up and grabbing D’Artagnan’s horse to lead her away and hide her with the others. 

“What’s happened?” Athos demanded as soon as the Gascon had sat up and fixed his cassock to keep it from strangling him. 

“Our tents,” D’Artagnan coughed, “Cardinal’s guards were tearing them apart, looking for us.” 

“Or evidence, likely,” added Aramis, “Though they would not need much more provocation regardless.” Porthos’ fists clenched and he punched the sand. 

“When I get my hands on that traitor, I’ll rip his damned arms off!” 

“Calm, Porthos,” ordered Athos. “We cannot lose our heads now. We are still reporting for duty so they cannot say we have deserted at least.” He turned to D’Artagnan. “You are certain you were not followed?” D’Artagnan nodded, taking a deep draught from the water skin Aramis offered him and wiping his sweaty face with the back of his arm. 

“Why hasn’t the Cardinal just arrested us when we arrive?” posed Aramis in confusion. “Why go through this entire charade?” 

“Likely trying to scare us into running,” spat Porthos, wrapping his cloak about himself, “Going to take much more than his dogs to do that.” Athos took a pull from the water D’Artagnan offered him, swirling it about his mouth thoughtfully. 

“We cannot stay here forever,” Athos stated. “If the Cardinal wants our heads, he will do whatever he can to see it done.” 

“Someone’s coming!” warned Planchet, fumbling for his pistol after he dove for cover. Athos pushed to the front of the line alongside Porthos and Aramis and D’Artagnan kept back to reload this time. They could hear the soft whumps of hooves on the sand then the muffled thump as someone dismounted. Athos crawled up slightly higher for a better line of sight and his eyes widened. 

“Hold, everyone!” he called. “Planchet, do not fire!” The servant looked back in surprise then faced forward again just as his pistol was stepped on, the muzzle buried in the sand. Roderic smiled down at him amiably. 

“Easy now, Monsieur, one should not shoot your master’s family.” 

“How did you find me?” Athos asked, standing at the dune’s crest, his one hand splayed open to indicate to the others to stay low and hidden. Roderic put his hand on his hip and scrutinized him. 

“You look awful, brother-in-law,” he remarked, a smirk briefly pulling up one side of his mouth. Athos narrowed his eyes. 

“You did not answer my question, Roderic.” 

“Can you not even offer family a drink? It has been a long ride.” Athos said nothing and offered nothing. 

“I have been searching all night,” Roderic finally sighed. “I was off duty today and figured I may as well keep looking rather than sleep. Does that satisfy you?” Athos tilted his head to the side suspiciously. For someone supposedly getting little sleep, he appeared remarkably well rested. Then again, he was at enough of a distance that Athos could not distinguish whether he was truly sleep deprived. 

“So what do you need me for? Has something happened with Orianne?” 

“No, no, nothing of the sort.” The conversation was awkward, with neither having much to say. Roderic shuffled. 

“And your friends, what of them?” 

“Why do you ask?”

“You four are never far apart. Given the circumstances, I figured this would be truer than ever,” he replied. Planchet tried to extricate the pistol from under Roderic’s boot, but the German only pressed harder. Athos noted this and his lips tightened, but he could do nothing about it. 

“They are not here,” said Athos. “They are at the front.” Roderic sighed, giving Athos an exasperated look. 

“For God sakes, I am a musketeer as well. Do you honestly think I would turn you in when my sister’s happiness rests with you?” He could feel Aramis reach up and give a subtle tug on the back of his breeches, but he could not look down to see what the man wanted. 

“Ambush!” D’Artagnan suddenly yelled and the dunes around them were swarming with Cardinal’s men in their black and red like gigantic ants. Athos turned, saw D’Artagnan was pinned beneath a guard who had gotten close enough to dive at him, and bounded back into their little hole to punch the man off him. There was scuffling and he could see Roderic had launched himself at Planchet, striking the rotund servant over and over with the butt of the pistol. Porthos fired, Aramis fired, Athos fired, all shots hit, but more came to fill the gap. 

“To arms!” shouted Athos, throwing aside his used musket, drawing his sword, and clambering out of the sandy pit to lead the charge. He lost track of his friends, working through guards like a battering ram, parrying, stabbing, slamming a body off his blade and coming back for more. A pistol shot rang out and Athos felt his leg buckle beneath him with his next step, yelling in surprised pain. He glanced up before bodies fell upon him to see Roderic slipping Athos’ now used pistol into his belt then he struggled and fought against the hands that grabbed him, disarmed him, forced his wrists into shackles, and forced him to stand despite his lamed leg. Held between two men, Athos looked around blearily to see Aramis brought up to join them with eyes rapidly swelling shut and Porthos coming next with a broken, bleeding nose. D’Artagnan was being dragged along the ground, spitting and swearing at their captors every time he stumbled to his knees and then got a face full of sand for being too slow to stand again. 

“You are under arrest by order of His Majesty the King and the Cardinal,” said Roderic as he stepped forward to face them. The four of them glared at him with all viciousness. 

“You’re the traitor,” snarled Porthos, his teeth tinged red with his own blood. “It was you who has been attacking us for months!” 

“Monsieur Porthos, we are at war. We are attacked everyday by Protestants,” Roderic sneered. 

“You bastard,” Athos spat. “What about your sister? You would make her a widow?” 

“She is safer and was happier with me than she would ever have been with you!” roared Roderic, backhanding Athos. He stared at him a moment, taking in Athos’ murderous glare, then leaned in closer to the older man. 

“Fear not, she and your bastard will be well taken care of.” Athos snapped to his wild eyes, his breath catching in his throat, his expression one of shocked disbelief. Roderic smiled widely, chuckled under his breath and stepped back. Then he turned his attention to the guards holding the musketeers. 

“Take them to His Eminence.” And they were dragged away, staggering and stumbling with their injuries. 

***

“Your Eminence,” Milady bent to the Cardinal and stood. Richelieu, garbed in armour and cavalier suit, was standing before a map, plotting the next attack against La Rochelle. It had been a dull time for her, cooped up the nearby inn awaiting further orders after receiving the King’s promise of protection. 

“You will return to Paris and get as close to Buckingham as you are able,” he ordered shortly. Milady raised her eyebrows inquisitively at his brusque tone. Buckingham had made his escape from Paris months ago, this she knew, but she was surprised that the man had not yet managed to make to England. 

“And then?” she asked, approaching the desk. Richelieu glanced up at her and she stopped an arms-length away, folding her hands together. 

“Then we will hope for one of those miracles that change the fate of nations,” he replied. He turned away from his plans and unlocked a small chest on his desk, withdrew a pouch from it, and then closed it. He held it out to her. 

“You will receive the rest when I next receive news from England.” She took the pouch from his hand and bowed again, turning to leave. 

“Your Eminence!” She stepped aside as De Cavoie burst into the tent, winded and excited, and silently slipped into a corner. Richelieu looked at him, frowning at the interruption. 

“This had better be important, Captain.” 

“We have arrested the murderers,” announced De Cavoie. “Shall I have them brought in?” Richelieu allowed a small smile. 

“Bring them before me.” De Cavoie signaled to the soldiers outside and they led in the four battered musketeers. Milady felt her eyes widen and made them settle. Richelieu considered the four before him, standing and leaving his desk so he could walk down the line they made. 

“Leave us,” he ordered, apparently satisfied. De Cavoie and his men bowed and left. Athos leaned heavily on one leg, lilting towards Porthos, whose eyes were blackening around his purple, swollen nose. Aramis appeared as if he could barely see through his eyes and D’Artagnan was very much scratched, bruised, and filthy. Richelieu smiled, having forgotten Milady’s presence or perhaps was letting her stay to witness their demise. 

“Well, do you regret this now?” he asked with the faintest hint of a smirk in his voice. None of them spoke, but all of them met his gaze. 

“For your crimes, you will be put to death immediately. His Majesty does not abide traitors in his ranks and the men you have killed will have their justice.” 

“Hardly,” Athos growled. Richelieu’s smile was still present. 

“You should have accepted my offer. Captain!” De Cavoie stepped back into the tent. 

“Escort these traitors outside of camp and shoot them,” he ordered, waving his hand at them and turning away to return to his work. 

“Yes, Your Eminence.” Milady watched as they were dragged out with the barest of struggles and frowned thoughtfully. She glanced at Richelieu, who had gone back to ignoring her, and followed them out. Athos was slowing down the party with his wound and this gave her an opening. She reached up, removed the glittering comb from her hair, and held it firmly in her hand. She came up alongside D’Artagnan, slid a sidelong look at his guards to see if they were paying any attention to her, and then she let her ankle fold under her, tilting her sideways into the party and in front of the boy. 

“Oh, do forgive me!” she fussed at D’Artagnan, who stared at her like he had been struck as she tucked the comb into the waist of his breeches before one of the guards came to his senses and pushed her aside. She watched them be led off, sighed and headed away from them to begin her preparations to return to Paris and hunt for Buckingham. 

***

As Athos shuffled along, he felt numb to everything, even the ball in his leg. He was going to be a father and he had to find that out from his traitorous, murderous brother-in-law. The world was not a fair place. The guards’ hands were tight on his upper arms and the shackles heavy on his wrists. They were reaching the last of the tents now, the edge of camp and their execution grounds in sight. The guards tripped them, threw them to the ground, knocking the wind out of them so they could not run and would die shot in the back like cowards in the grass. Athos refused to go like that. He sat up, coughing and sputtering, and saw that Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan had also managed to turn themselves around and upright. They looked up at their executioners with grimly resigned expression, the barrels of their muskets nearly in their faces so they would not miss. Aramis’ mouth was moving, likely uttering a prayer for them all. Athos closed his eyes, the wave of guilt washing over him. My friends, I’m sorry.

“On my mark!” called De Cavoie. “Ready!” The muskets were aimed and steady. The flintlocks were clicked back in unison. 

“Stop! By order of the king!” A voice cut in and Athos opened his eyes to see Tréville running forward with several musketeers at his back, a parchment scroll crumpled tightly in his fist, his face florid from seemingly sprinting from the King’s tent to their execution ground. 

“His Majesty has given me leave to investigate on their behalf,” Tréville declared, shoving the decree into De Cavoie’s hand, the seal already broken. “I want those shackles removed at once.” De Cavoie frowned, examined the decree in his hand, seemed to read it twice before he threw back at Tréville in a huff and approached the four, drawing a set of long keys off his belt. 

Then hell broke loose. Fire rained from the sky in great burning barrels and an airship blocked out the sun. Soldiers ran wild, trying to get out of the way of the chaos, trying to save their skins. Some pointed their muskets to the sky and fired uselessly into the wood above. Porthos grabbed Athos by the arm and hefted him along like they were some three-legged beast, Aramis dragging D’Artagnan not far behind, shackles flying and threatening to smack them in the face. His leg was not only on fire, it may as well have just fallen off from the sheer stabbing pain of every step. He forced himself to keep going, to make one more step to save his friends, to make one more step back to his love, one more step into his future, until they finally arrived amongst the trees again and he could not go any further, collapsing against Porthos and bringing them both down into the cover of the brush.


	39. Many Unhappy Returns

The sun was setting, casting long, sharp-looking shadows over them. The shouts from the burning camp long behind them had lessened as either men died or were drowned out in the explosions of thrown powder barrels landing on their heads. Porthos crawled along the ground, dragging himself along with his bulky arms and sturdy legs; glancing back now and again to make sure Athos was there with him, his pale face even whiter with pain. They both froze suddenly as they heard running feet nearby, but then kept going deeper into the woods when they’d passed, away from the carnage. 

“Deserter,” muttered Athos, pulling ahead of Porthos ever so slightly. Porthos grimaced, the bitter label feeling like an impossible stain on his skin. Tréville had stuck out his neck for them, petitioning the King to give them a trial, a chance to explain, and here they were scrabbling like animals in the dirt, running like kicked dogs. 

“Athos, what’d that scum say to you when we were arrested?” Porthos asked, stopping beside Athos who had paused to catch his breath, his forehead resting on his arm. He had been too far away to hear standing between Aramis and D’Artagnan, but he had seen Athos’ expression, the shock that he could not mask. Athos shook his head. 

“Later, Porthos. For now, we have greater concerns.” They had lost Aramis and D’Artagnan in their flight. It was likely that Aramis had pulled the boy in a different direction to heighten their chances that at least one of them could get away. It would be the kind of plan he would make, to try and part ways to protect the youngest and make him survive this. Porthos watched Athos compose himself so they could continue; scrubbing his eyes and cheeks against his sleeve to clear the sweat and grime, and this reaffirmed his own resolve more than he thought imaginable. He would see that this man, his friend, his brother, made it home, whatever it took. 

“Come on, Athos,” he urged, reaching over to grip his shoulder. “Not far now then we can try and get the ball out of your leg.” If they didn’t, the wound would only worsen, make him ill. But they had to get far enough so they could try and dig it out with something, far enough so that Athos wouldn’t be heard because it would hurt. Athos nodded, gritted his teeth, and began crawling again, Porthos right there with him, dragging himself over tree roots and around briar bushes that caught in the older man’s long hair. The trees were thinning and they found themselves rolling down a slight hill then lying on their backs on the cool, damp ground staring up at the first stars in the sky. 

“Let’s see that leg of yours then,” said Porthos finally after a moment or two, rolling over and crawling to Athos, who was still watching the sky with an inscrutable look on his face. 

“Have you ever wondered what you would do after all of our adventures were done?” asked Athos suddenly, making Porthos pause and sit back on his legs. 

“What’s bringing this on, Athos?” he asked, smiling like it was some kind of joke. “Feeling lonely?” Athos did not answer for a moment or two and Porthos’ smile slipped away, realising it was a serious question. 

“I never thought about it,” Porthos lied around the lump in his throat. Sure, he’d thought about it, when one day his friends may just not be there anymore, whether by choice or not. God, he wished Aramis was sitting here instead of him at this moment. “I just waited for the next adventure. Come on now; sit up so we can see your leg. Can’t have you dying because some traitor shot you.” Athos did so, hissing between his teeth as he probed the wound himself through the hole in his breeches, the cloth warm and soggy with blood. Porthos made him move his hand away and tried to get a look at it in the dying light, tongue held between his teeth as his too large fingers poked and prodded despite Athos’ curses to see if maybe he could feel the metal ball under the skin. He sat back and smiled. 

“Well, you’re lucky,” he said, clapping Athos on the knee, making him wince involuntarily. “Looks like the ball only took a chunk of your flesh rather than getting stuck in it.” 

“Wonderful,” growled Athos through clenched teeth. “Still need to stop the bleeding Porthos or I will draw every hungry beast around.” He reached for his jerkin, unbuttoned it and then his doublet under that to get to his black shirt. He tugged the long hem from where it was tucked in his breeches and ripped off a wide enough strip from around the base, passing it to Porthos so he could bind the wound tight to staunch it. Porthos helped him to his feet so he could test his leg and was vaguely surprised as Athos put his weight on it and it held, but suspected it was only because he would not allow it to buckle. 

“We should go back,” said Athos, beginning to limp his way up the hillside. 

“Athos, we’ve already run,” said Porthos, frowning. “We’ll be shot as soon as we’re seen.” Athos stopped, staring at the trees. He knew that Porthos was right, but it did not stop the irritation from boiling up inside him at the situation. Dead if they left, dead if they stayed, especially if the Cardinal had his way, and he would never get the chance to wring Roderic’s scrawny neck and beat him until he could no longer breathe. 

“What do you suggest?” he asked without turning to the tall man. Porthos shuffled up behind him. 

“I was hoping you would have a better idea,” he admitted frankly. There was an orange glow barely visible above the treeline from the fires and destruction. A snapped twig drew their attention briefly, but when nothing and no one appeared, they calmed. 

“We search for Aramis and D’Artagnan,” said Athos at last, turning his gaze away from the forest. “Then we can devise a plan.” Porthos nodded, smiling with the relief at having something to do, a direction to follow, and let Athos lead the way. They did not get far when a seemingly black shadow peeled itself from the trees and lunged at Athos, tackling him to the ground and rolling them both away. Porthos leapt back to keep from being tripped then charged after them. 

The shadow, actually a man, was doing his best to land blows to Athos’ face and body, having been the lucky one to land on top and pin the musketeer to the ground. Athos had crossed his arms over his face, growling and swearing, fending off the attack as best he could until he was able to block a hit and strike back, his knuckles cracking against the other’s jaw and sending him reeling. Then Athos pounced, pinning the man by his shoulders, smacking his head against the ground, and punching him hard enough to subdue him. Panting, he accepted Porthos’ offered hand to help pull him to his feet and they stared down at the attacker in surprise. 

“My God, is that--?” 

“Buckingham,” spat Athos with a barely held snarl. 

“How the devil did he get here?” asked Porthos, gesturing to the open space around them. The Englishman looked worse for wear with his thin, gaunt face, scraggly hair, and scruffy beard. His clothes were torn in places, most noticeably at the knees, and upon closer inspection they realized it was the uniform of a Royal Guard. 

“Clearly, he escaped,” said Athos bitterly. He kicked him lightly for good measure and Buckingham gave a low, pained groan. 

“At least we have weapons now,” said Porthos, bending down and removing Buckingham’s stolen sword and dagger. He left the pistols after checking them, seeing that they had both been used and Buckingham had neither shot nor powder upon his person. Porthos stood, offering the sword to Athos who waved it away. 

“With my wound, I would not be much use with that,” he noted wryly, taking the dagger instead, and Porthos attached the sword to his belt. Their weapons had been taken from them on their way to be presented to the Cardinal and he rather doubted ever seeing their return, same as their likely rifled through belongings back at camp. 

“What do we do with him? Turn him in in exchange for a pardon?” Porthos offered hopefully. Athos shook his head. 

“They might pardon us for desertion, but I doubt they would do so for murder.” He looked up and glanced around, taking in the openness around them with a frown. 

“At least it would give us and Tréville time to show that Roderic is the real traitor!” protested Porthos. 

“Grab an arm, Porthos. We need to drag him out of sight and hide ourselves until we find the others.” The two of them hefted Buckingham to his feet, each slinging an arm over their shoulders with difficulty giving the limited movement offered by the shackles, and they made their way back along the treeline away from camp. The waning moon was out now, lighting their path and tinting everything silver, and the only sound between them was their breathing. 

“Porthos!” a voice hissed at them from the right. The man started and turned, forcing Athos to stop as well. Aramis was there, barely visible if not for his pale face, tucked in amongst the trees. 

“Aramis!” They dragged their captive over to the young man who eyed them curiously. 

“Who have you got there?” asked Aramis, trying to get a look at Buckingham’s face despite his lolling head. 

“Buckingham,” Athos replied simply. “It appears he escaped from Paris some time ago. Where is D’Artagnan?” 

“Down here,” grunted the boy irritably from behind a nearby bush. “How in the world do you pick this lock?” Porthos looked down at Aramis’ wrists and noted he longer wore his shackles, realizing that he was carrying them around his neck instead as a makeshift weapon. 

“Where did you get a set of lockpicks?” Porthos demanded. Aramis smiled. 

“Ask the boy,” he said, gesturing with his head in the direction of the Gascon, who was now standing. He came to them clearly frustrated, a golden comb in one hand and the largest of its picks pulled from it and held between his fingers of the other. He attempted to jiggle and turn the pick in the left shackle’s lock, but the metal held stubbornly firm, refusing to open. 

“Aramis, why did you not just do it for him?” Porthos asked. “Would’ve been faster.” 

“It is a skill he should learn,” replied Aramis. “Come here, D’Artagnan, let me show you again.” D’Artagnan gratefully offered his wrist and watched carefully as Aramis slid the pick in straight, pushed it up, down, then turned it with a click of the lock’s release. 

“You make it look so simple,” said D’Artagnan moodily, shucking off the cuff and taking the pick from him to try to work on his right one. 

“You will get a feel for it with time,” said Aramis, taking the pick back. “Let me do the other for now so these two can be free as well.” He removed D’Artagnan’s other cuff then passed the pick to Athos and Porthos, who had purposely dropped Buckingham’s unconscious body to the ground. They quickly freed themselves then used them to shackle Buckingham at the wrists. The cuffs were too small to fit around his boots otherwise they would have bound them too. 

“Tell us, D’Artagnan,” began Athos as they settled on the ground, sheltered by bushes. “Where did these picks come from?” The boy looked away, guilt in his expression. 

“It was Milady,” he finally sighed, refusing to look at Athos, whom he could feel staring at him. He suddenly and inexplicably started blushing and continued. “She practically threw herself at me as we were being taken to be executed and slipped this comb down my breeches.” 

“I wonder which side she’s on this time,” said Porthos. “Saving the King, giving us a key to escape; seems dangerous to me.” 

“I agree,” Aramis nodded. “But I must admit I am grateful for it, whatever her plan may be.” 

“I doubt we can thank her for the English attacking,” said Athos, trying to turn the conversation. “Speaking of Englishmen, what do you two think we should do with this fool?” He gestured to Buckingham, who looked like he was starting to stir. 

“I still say we turn him in for a pardon,” put forth Porthos. “He’s a war prisoner. They have to give us something for bringing him in.” 

“They do not have to do anything, Porthos,” said Aramis with a sigh. “The Cardinal would cheat us--”

“And the King would not notice the difference,” added Athos bitterly. 

“Tréville would though,” offered D’Artagnan hopefully. “He would have to be involved, right? As our Captain?” Aramis shook his head. 

“He was almost too late once, likely because he was caught unaware.” 

“But he knows now!” insisted the boy. “And he is already looking into it.” 

“After that attack, he will be more focused on seeing the camp resettled or moved and the injured and dead looked after,” contradicted Athos. “He will not have time for our problems.” 

“And what might those be, I wonder?” The four looked over to see Buckingham sitting up and watching them with an insufferable smirk. Fist-shaped bruising was already starting to bloom along his jaw. 

“Sitting out here in the woods while your fellows fight your battles?” he taunted. “How pathetic.” 

“That’s enough out of you,” growled Porthos, cuffing him hard on the back of his head. Buckingham glared at him, but there was little else he could do being weaponless. 

“I say we turn Buckingham over to the Captain,” D’Artagnan says stubbornly. “At least it's something. We can’t keep him hidden forever. Someone else will find him and we would lose our chance at a pardon.” Athos sighed, looking to Aramis, who appeared as thoughtful as ever. 

“Your thoughts?” he prompted. 

“I agree that we turn him in,” Aramis replied after a moment or two. “Tréville should be able to negotiate a better pardon for us given the fact that it’s Buckingham.” Athos then glanced to Porthos, but he already knew his thoughts on the matter.

“Then we take him back to the camp,” said Athos with a sigh. “For all the good it will do us.” They stood, pulled the Englishman to his feet and slowly marched him back through the trees, Athos on one side and Porthos on the other. Porthos passed Aramis his borrowed blade so they would have some defence. Athos gave D’Artagnan the dagger. 

“The Cardinal has already betrayed me and you,” said Buckingham loudly. “Why would you want to help him by bringing me back?” They ignored him, but Athos could feel that thought niggling in the back his mind, making him angry. 

“Be quiet,” he ordered gruffly, giving the Duke an unnecessary shove from behind, making him stumble. Yet the pompous man continued his loud monologue. 

“If you were to help me to return to England, I could end this war,” he lamented. “You could go back to your sleepy, useless lives.”

“Not as useless as you’d be back in England giving France a hard time,” said Porthos as he gave him a harder shove forward. “Keep walking.” The trees thinned after a short time of guiding Buckingham over roots and around bushes and they came back into the smouldering camp. The air stank of burnt oil and cooked meat under the smoky fog. The silence was more overwhelming, even more so as Buckingham refrained from speaking or protesting his treatment. The destruction was extensive and the barrels of exploded oil had made it spread farther, but after a good period of limping and walking they arrived at the new camp. It mostly consisted of many displaced soldiers and very few proper tents. Many men had endeavoured to set up their cloaks as replacements with mixed results. As the Inseparables came into the camp, some soldiers noticed them and stared as they frog marched Buckingham through the maze of fabric and bodies. 

“Where is Tréville?” Porthos asked in a shout, looking around at the many pairs of eyes that followed them. Men pointed further into the makeshift camp and they continued, Porthos repeating the question a few more times until they arrived in front of the King’s tent, which was miraculously unharmed. The two guards in front immediately blocked their way with threatening halberds and Aramis stepped forward, hands empty and raised. 

“We need to speak with Monsieur de Tréville,” he said calmly, gesturing behind him with one hand. “We have an escaped war prisoner.” 

“Step aside!” ordered Tréville as he came out of the tent, his face smeared with dirt and hair and mustache singed. Aramis fell back to stand beside Porthos and D’Artagnan joined Athos to offer him support for his wounded leg, all of them facing Tréville. Porthos and Athos pushed Buckingham forward, bringing him down to his knees in front of the Captain. 

“Well now, this is a surprise,” remarked Tréville with a smile. “Welcome back Milord Buckingham. I hope you enjoyed your trip in the French countryside.” Buckingham glared up at him, but said nothing. Tréville waved the two guards towards the English Minister. 

“Guard him and do not let him out of your sight for anything. You four,” Tréville addressed his best men with a grim expression. “This will help your stay of execution. But you need to tell me everything that has been happening.” Tréville led them away from the tent and Buckingham, taking them a little outside the camp and settling in the grass with them. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his crossed legs, his gaze intent. 

“Now, tell me everything you can about the poisoning.” 

“There is not much we can say,” said Aramis, shaking his head. “We’ve suspected a traitor in the musketeers for some time now, trying to kill us.” 

“He tried to drown Athos in his diving suit and shoot Aramis off an airship!” exclaimed D’Artagnan. “Then tried to poison us with that wine.” Tréville nodded, frowning. 

“And who are your suspects?”

“Just one,” spat Athos, his eyes blazing with a sudden fury. “Roderic.” 

“The Chevalier de Sissonne?” Tréville asked with slight scepticism in his tone. When they looked at him in confusion, Tréville realized they were unaware of the young man’s relatively new noble status. 

“He was rewarded by the Cardinal for his actions during Buckingham’s capture,” Tréville explained. “The Queen was also in favour. I was doubtful, but had no good reason to dispute it.” Porthos slapped a fist against his knee, growling. 

“Well, he may as well have admitted to his treachery when he arrested us with the Cardinal’s Guards!” Tréville rubbed at his chin thoughtfully before he abruptly stood, looking at the King’s tent with a frown. 

“Gentlemen, I shall speak with His Majesty. Considering the danger here, I will see if I can convince him to return to Paris for his safety for the moment. If so, I will send you four as part of his escort,” He looked down at them, meeting each of their gazes silently. “And I will provide you leave to find Roderic and bring him back for questioning in this matter.”

“He is not in the camp?” asked D’Artagnan with a look of confusion. Tréville sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“No, he is not. He made a convincing argument for his discharge,” here he paused to glance at Athos as he picked at the grass absently, his expression still as black as a thundercloud.

“It will be best if you wait here. Some of the soldiers in the camp may not be so friendly to you until we clear this up.” Tréville left to return to the camp and the other three turned to their angry friend, his mood making the atmosphere tense and sparking about them. 

“Athos, it’s later now and we have a plan. What did Roderic say to you?” Porthos asked. Athos ran a hand through his hair with a gruff sigh. 

“He said that Orianne is with child,” Athos admitted, putting his face in his hands. Despite his friends’ angry exclamations against the young man on his behalf, Athos found his black thoughts turning against his fiancée. Why did she not tell him? Letters had been sparse due to the war and turning weather, certainly, but why would she have not written him about her state? 

“Athos,” he looked up, feeling D’Artagnan’s hand on his arm and the boy’s worried gaze watching. 

“Perhaps she was afraid to tell you,” said Aramis after scrutinizing his friend’s face. “She will have her reasons.” 

“Maybe that bastard German got the letter that was meant for Athos when we weren’t in the camp,” snarled Porthos, “And likely burned it too.” Athos nodded, his expression not quite clearing of its grimness, but becoming a little more thoughtful. Then he paled suddenly and his friends were lunging towards him, afraid at the change.

“Athos, what is it? What’s happened?” 

“Roderic’s going back to Paris,” he said as calmly as he could despite his own internal horror; a dark feeling he saw slowly dawning in his friends’ faces as they came to understand his words. “He said that he’s going to take care of her and my bastard. He’s going after her and the baby.”


End file.
